LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


Class 


IT  M 


0 


E  OS  Q  TT  E  E)     IE* 


i 


utulsi     ii'.Poet    ouce;    aiad    he     ^oiilcl     tell, 
ifi)  si    timtj  fully,  -wrli  at  e'er  to    thee  LeiVil; 
Could    fill     cfic'h  pustoT-cxl  reed  -up on  iky   sl-i 


THE 


POETS  OF  CONNECTICUT; 


WITH 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCHES. 


"  Connecticut  !  thy  name, 

Uncouth  in  song,  too  long  concealed  from  fame, 
If  yet  thy  filial  bards  the  gloom  can  pierce, 
Shall  rise  and  flourish  in  immortal  verse. 
Inventive  genius,  imitative  powers, 
And,  still  more  precious,  common  sense  is  ours  ; 
While  knowledge  useful,  more  than  science  grand, 
In  rivulets  still  o'erspreads    the  smiling  land  !  " 

HUMPHREYS. 


EDITED     BY 

REV.  CHARLES  W.  EVEREST. 


HARTFORD: 

CASE,   TIFFANY   AND   BURNHAM. 

1844. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1843, 

BY     C.    W.    EVEREST, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  Connecticut. 


PRINTED    BY 
Case,  Tiffany  &   Co. 

HARTFORD. 


Stereotyped  by 
RICHARD      H.    HOBBS 

Hartford,   Coun. 


TO    THE    READER. 


FOR  the  design  of  "  The  Poets  of  Connecticut,"  we  can  claim  little 
originality.  Various  literary  collections,  somewhat  similar  in  character, 
have  already  appeared,  as  "The  Boston  Book,"  "The  Rhode  Island 
Book,"  "The  New  York  Book,"  &c.  These,  however,  for  the  most  part, 
have  been  merely  compilations,  arranged  without  any  principle  of  order, 
and  furnishing  no  biographical  particulars.  In  these  respects,  the  plan  of 
the  present  work  differs  materially  from  that  of  others  which,  like  itself, 
embrace  only  the  writers  of  one  State  or  section.  The  publications  which 
it  most  closely  resembles,  are  the  "  Specimens  of  American  Poetry, " 
edited  by  SAMUEL  KETTELL,  and  published  some  years  since,  at  Boston,  by 
S.  G.  GOODRICH,  and  the  recent  large  volume  of  "The  Poets  and  Poetry  of 
America,  "edited  by  RUFUS  WILMOT  GRISWOLD,  and  published  at  Philadel 
phia,  by  CAREY  and  HART.  Yet  the  similarity  of  our  volume  to  these, 
consists  chiefly  in  its  biographical  sketches,  and  in  the  order  of  arrangement. 

In  preparing  our  present  work,  the  first  difficulty  which  presented  itself 
was  to  determine  a  true  principle  of  admission.  Who  are  the  Poets  of 
Connecticut  1  If  we  should  select  only  those  who  were  born  in  the  State, 
and  continued  to  reside  within  its  limits,  every  reader  would  doubtless 
complain  of  the  rigidness  of  the  rule.  Two  other  classes  present  a  claim — 
those  who  are  citizens  by  birthright  only,  and  those  who  have  become  such 
by  residence.  To  admit  both  were  to  encroach  on  the  claims  of  other 
States;  and  we  think  it  undoubtedly  the  fairest  course  to  concede  the  place 
to  those  who  prefer  the  right  of  nativity. 

"  Seven  mighty  cities  claimed  great  HOMER  dead, 
Through  which  the  living  HOMER  begged  his  bread." 

Here  was  no  question  of  residence.  The  bard  had  maintained  a  vagabond- 
residence  in  each  :  and  now  the  strife  was  to  determine  the  question  of  birth. 
Let  us  illustrate  our  position  by  a  familiar  example,  from  our  own  class  of 
writers.  JAMES  OTIS  ROCKWELL,  was  born,  and,  for  a  few  years,  lived,  in 
Connecticut ;  he  next  dwelt,  for  a  time,  in  New  Jersey  ;  afterward,  he 
resided  in  the  State  of  New  York  ;  subsequently,  he  was  a  citizen  of  Mas 
sachusetts  ;  and  lastly,  he  was  a  resident  of  Rhode  Island,  where  he  died. 
Now,  to  which  of  these  five  States  may  he  be  said  properly  to  have  be 
longed  ;  and  to  which  does  his  poetical  reputation,  whatever  it  may  be, 


225810 


IV 


TO     THE     READER 


belong,  on  the  ground  of  citizenship  1  Connecticut,  we  believe,  alone  can 
claim  it,  as  birth  alone,  in  this  case,  and  all  cases,  irrespective  of  residence, 
constitutes  a  true  filial  relation.  We  determined,  therefore,  to  be  governed, 
in  all  instances,  by  the  fact  of  nativity,  and  to  admit  the  names  of  none  upon 
our  list  who  were  not  born  within  the  Commonwealth.  We  are  well  aware 
that  this  principle  necessarily  excludes  many  honorable  names,  and  some 
which  have  long  been  identified  with  our  State  and  its  literature.  Any 
other  rule  of  admission,  however,  would  also  produce  unpleasant  exclusions. 
We  felt  compelled,  under  the  circumstances,  to  adopt  that  course  which 
seemed  the  truer  one,  and,  having  adopted  it,  rigidly  to  adhere  to  our  prin 
ciple.  It  was  with  profound  regret  that  we  waved  a  parting  hand  to  the 
venerable  names  of  TIMOTHY  and  THEODORE  DWIGHT,  and  the  later  ones 
of  our  Reverend  brethren,  WILLIAM  CROSWELL,  GEORGE  BURGESS,  and 
ARTHUR  CLEVELAND  COXE,  as  also  the  pleasant  lyrist,  ANN  CHARLOTTE 
LYNCH.  They  all  belong  to  our  literature,  by  residence,  and  Connecti 
cut  may  be  justly  proud  of  such  adopted  children.  From  others,  also,  of 
high  esteem,  who  had  actually  found  their  way  upon  our  list,  we  were 
obliged  reluctantly  to  part.  A  selection  from  the  writings  of  these  Con 
necticut  Poets,  which  we  hope  may  yet  be  made,  would  form  a  rich  endow 
ment  for  the  literature  of  the  State  and  country. 

Having  thus  resolved  upon  the  class  to  which  our  selections  should  be 
confined,  it  was  by  no  means  an  easy  question  to  determine  how  many 
were  entitled,  on  the  score  of  merit,  to  a  place  in  the  volume.  Those 
names,  we  are  proud  to  say,  are  not  a  few,  concerning  which  there  could 
be  no  question.  But  there  are  others  who  certainly  present  some  claim, 
and  yet  of  such  a  moderate  character,  that  their  admission  or  rejection 
must  depend  chiefly  upon  the  taste  or  generosity  of  an  editor.  The 
critical  reader  may  perhaps  be  disposed  to  think  that  our  benevolence  is 
unreasonably  extensive,  or  our  judgment  too  moderate  for  the  task  of  discrimi 
nation.  However  this  may  be,  we  have  admitted  none  whom  we  do  not 
think,  upon  the  whole,  entitled  to  a  place.  We  shall  not  claim  that  all  the 
verse  comprised  in  our  selections  is  of  a  high  order  of  poetry.  But  we  do 
assert  that  we  believe  much  of  it  to  be,  and  furthermore,  that  there  is 
nothing  in  the  volume  wholly  unworthy  of  that  name.  Commencing  with 
the  Hon.  ROGER  WOLCOTT,  who  was  our  first  writer  of  any  sufficient  merit 
to  deserve  a  mention,  we  have  selected  such  writers  as  have  contributed  in 
all  periods  to  our  poetical  literature,  down  to  the  present  time.  Some  of 
these,  perhaps,  have  made  but  humble  contributions.  Still,  as  not  wholly 
unworthy,  we  have  given  them  such  a  place  as  their  worth  and  position 
seemed  to  require  ;  prefering  that  our  work  should  thus  present,  as  it  were, 
a  brief  historical  account  of  the  poetical  literature  of  Connecticut,  from  its 
commencement  to  the  present  period.  In  all  instances,  we  have  arranged 
the  subjects  in  the  order  of  birth,  as  being  less  invidious,  and  as  better 
comporting  with  our  design.  Although  we  have  used  every  care  to  obtain 
the  names  and  writings  of  all  our  native  poets,  we  shall  not  be  surprised  to 


TO     THE     READER. 

->^X-^_X-X^^--N_^N_^^_^^^^N_^^-X^-^-'-^- 

find  that  perhaps  even  important  omissions  have  occurred.  Should  such  be 
the  case,  it  is  an  error  easily  amended  on  a  future  occasion.  From  the 
younger  writers  of  the  present  day  we  have  made  but  few  selections.  The 
limits  which  the  Publishers  felt  compelled  to  set  to  the  volume  necessarily 
restricted  us  in  space.  Beside,  the  writers  to  whom  we  allude  are  so 
young,  and  have  been  as  yet  so  little  before  the  public,  that  we  do  them  no 
injustice  in  the  omission.  Many  of  them  possess  fine  talents,  and  give 
promise  of  future  distinction.  The  present  volume,  like  all  new  publica 
tions,  must  be  regarded  somewhat  in  the  light  of  an  experiment.  Should 
such  a  patronage  be  extended  to  it  as  we  feel  that  we  may  reasonably  ex 
pect,  we  hope,  at  some  future  time,  to  prepare  an  enlarged  edition  of  the 
work,  when  a  larger  selection  may  be  afforded  to  some  of  those  who  now 
appear,  and  when  the  names  of  many  of  those  who  are  now  beginning  a 
literary  career  may  be  added  to  the  present  catalogue. 

In  the  department  of  biography,  we  have  endeavored  in  all  cases,  save 
those  of  living  writers,  to  make  our  sketches  as  complete  as  possible.  In 
the  latter  instances,  we  have  preferred  only  to  present  a  few  of  the  principal 
facts  of  personal  history.  The  duty  proved  a  more  difficult  one  than  we 
had  anticipated.  In  regard  to  many,  of  whom  sketches  had  before  appeared, 
we  found  that  the  labor  was  not  light,  in  consequence  of  manifold  inaccu 
racies  with  which  these  publications  abounded:  and,  in  many  instances, 
all  the  materials  were  now  for  the  first  time  obtained.  We  have  labored 
to  be  correct :  but,  despite  all  our  effort,  we  shall  doubtless  often  be  found 
astray,  and  shall  be  obliged  to  any  one  who  will  furnish  us  with  corrections, 
as,  in  this  manner  alone,  can  we  hope  for  entire  accuracy. 

In  the  department  of  criticism,  we  have  attempted  but  little.  Our  posi 
tion  differs  materially  from  that  of  a  Reviewer ;  and  criticism  which  the 
latter  might  with  propriety  often  make,  would  appear  unnecessary  and 
wholly  uncalled  for  on  our  part.  In  most  instances,  we  have  done  little 
more  than  to  point  out  a  few  characteristic  traits  of  each  author's  verse, 
refraining  from  especial  eulogy  or  censure.  Our  office  seemed  not  unlike 
that  of  one  who  exhibits  a  gallery  of  pictures.  He  may  point  out  some 
beauties  of  the  various  paintings  of  his  collection,  and  this  is  expected  of 
him;  but  he  is  in  no  wise  bound  to  expose  every  fault.  In  making  our 
selections,  we  have  endeavored,  according  to  our  own  judgment,  to  present 
the  best  poems  of  each  writer,  although,  in  some  instances,  these  poems 
are  already  well  known  to  the  reader.  The  amount  of  space  allowed  to 
each,  has  been,  to  a  great  extent,  determined  by  the  position  and  character 
of  the  writer.  To  have  given  a  young  author,  or  one  but  little  known,  and 
that  too  only  through  the  medium  of  the  periodicals,  the  same  room  which 
was  afforded  to  the  writings  of  HILLHOUSE  and  BRAINARD,  would  be  con 
trary  to  all  rules  of  right. 

To  the  various  friends  to  whom  we  have  been  indebted  in  preparing  our 
work,  for  the  loan  of  books  which,  often,  we  could  not  otherwise  have  ob 
tained,  for  necessary  information,  for  patient  replies  to  troublesome  epistles 


of  inquiry,  or  in  whatever  manner,  we  desire  to  tender  our  sincere  thanks. 
Especially  would  we  present  our  grateful  acknowledgements  to  the  Hon. 
THEODORE  DWIGHT,  for  his  efficient  advice  in  relation  to  the  earlier  writers 
of  our  list,  and  also  to  another  and  dear  friend,  who  has  been  our  "  board 
of  council "  from  the  commencement  of  our  labors  to  their  close. 

Our  work  is  done,  and  we  now  patiently  await  the  public  decision  upon 
its  merits.  We  believe  that  we  offer,  a  valuable  contribution  to  our  na 
tional  literature.  While  the  names  of  many  of  our  writers  will  be  recog 
nized  by  the  reader  as  familiar  acquaintances,  there  are  others  in  our  book 
with  which  the  public  are  wholly  unacquainted,  and  poems  which  before 
were  never  committed  to  the  press.  Others  have  been  brought  up  from  a 
temporary  oblivion,  and  might  otherwise  have  never  again  seen  the  light. 
We  confess  a  feeling  of  conscious  pride  in  submitting  such  a  collection  of 
the  poetical  literature  of  our  native  Commonwealth.  New  England  has 
been  the  nursery  of  American  literature :  let  the  present  work  determine 
whether  Connecticut  has  not  been  its  very  cradle. 

Our  work  is  done ;  and,  despite  the  labor  and  care  which  it  has  caused  us, 
we  leave  it  with  a  sentiment  of  regret.  Like  one  who  leaves  a  banquet- 
hall,  where  a  group  of  loved  companions  surround  the  festal  board,  whose 
cheering  converse  has  long  enlivened  and  delighted,  thus,  fondly  lingering, 
we  bid  farewell  to  our  pleasant  friends  "THE  POETS  OF  CONNECTICUT." 

C.  W.  EVEREST. 


CONTENTS 


VII 


CONTENTS. 


HON.  ROGER  WOLCOTT,         -        -       .       f       .        .        .        .  13 

Meditations  on  Man's  First  and  Fallen  Estate,  -        -        -        -        -        -  17 

Matthew  x :  28, *.        .        .        .  21 

Proverbs  xxxi  :10, -        .        .        -21 

Psalm  LXIV  :  6, 22 

REV.  AARON  CLEVELAND, 23 

The  Philosopher  and  Boy, 25 

The  Family  Blood  :  a  burlesque,        - 32 

JOHN  TRUMBULL, 35 

The  Prophecy  of  Balaam, 40 

The  Schoolmaster, 43 

The  Fop's  Decline, 44 

The  Belle, 45 

The  Wedding, 48 

DR.  LEMUEL  HOPKINS, 51 

On  General  Ethan  Allen, 53 

Epitaph  on  a  Patient  killed  by  a  Cancer  Quack,     -----  53 

Poland, 55 

Robespierre, - 56 

General  Wayne — and  the  West, 56 

On  the  Second  Appointment  of  Washington, 57 

Extract  from  Lines  on  the  Yellow  Fever,  -------58 

COL.  DAVID  HUMPHREYS, 59 

Triumphs  of  Peace, 62 

American  Winter, 64 

Heroes  of  the  Revolution, 65 

The  Veteran's  Tale, 69 

Sonnet— To  the  Prince  of  Brazil, 70 

The  Immortality  of  Virtue, 71 

Sonnet— The  Soul, 72 

JOEL  BARLOW, 73 

The  Reign  of  Peace, 8] 

Hasty  Pudding, 82 

Columbus, 85 

Visit  of  Hesper, 87 

Surrender  of  Cornwallis, 89 

Poets  of  America, 90 

The  Babylonian  Captivity, 91 

RICHARD  ALSOP, 93 

Egalite— Due  D'  Orleans, 95 

Napoleon, 96 

Washington, 100 

Hymn  to  Peace, 103 

Inscription  for  a  Family  Tomb, 104 


VIII 


CONTENTS. 


DR.  ELIHU  HUBBARD  SMITH,  -  -  .—  •  *.  -  -  105 

Discovery  of  Printing, -107 

Edwin  and  Angeline — An  Opera.  Act  Second,  Scene  I,  •  >  -  109 

Act  Third,  Scene  v, 110 

Act  Third,  Scene  vn, -  -  ''  -  .  *>  *  HI 

WILLIAM  RAY,  -  .  .  .  .  '  */.-•.  ..-.  -  -  113 
Tripoli,-  -  -  r  .  ..".,;.  *  -  ->;  -  117 

Commencement  of  Service,  -  -  >  -"•  - 118 

The  Way  to  be  Happy,  -  ..'---  -•-,,,  -  119 

Autumn, -  -  -  120 

Village  Greatness,  -  -  -  -  -  -  ''"•-'  l'  '  121 

JOHN  ALSOP,  -  -•-.;.'  •  - 123 

Elegy,  ........  •.*,••'•;•*  -  -  -  124 

Lines,  suggested  by  "  Childe  Harold,  " 126 

Aurelia, '  *  (>  **  -  -  127 

Lines  to  the  Spirit  of  a  Departed  Friend,  -  •  •  •  -  -  -  128 

Epitaph  on  the  Rev.  Dr.  Elizur  Goodrich, 129 

Epitaph  on  the  Hon.  William  Gushing,  ---.---  129 
Lines  on  a  Lady's  Shedding  Tears  after  Marriage,  •  -  -  -  130 
Epigrams,  -  -  -  -  •  •  -  -  -  •  •  \  •'  •  •  130 

SELLECK  OSBORN,    -        -       ».'•   --',-' 131 

The  Treble  Voice, 132 

The  Sailor, 133 

The  Ruins, 134 

Affectation  Rebuked, 135 

Platonic  Love, 136 

Dartmoor, 136 

REV.  JOHN  PIERPONT, 137 

The  Prophecy,        -        -         .-/..- 138 

Palestine,-        -        -  ?  •'-'-'      -        -        •       >.       -,       -        -        -139 

Music  of  Italy,        -        -        - 140 

Invocation, 141 

"  Passing  Away.  " — A  Dream,         -        •,' .    •        .....      143 

My  Child, 145 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers, 147 

Dirjre  of  Spurzheim, 148 

Dedication  Hymn, 149 

Warren's  Address,  before  the  Battle  of  Bunker  Hill,          -        -        -        -  150 

MRS.  EMMA  WILLARD, 151 

Bride-stealing, 153 

REV.  DANIEL  HUNTINGTON, --      163 

The  Theme, 164 

The  Treasure, 166 

Infidelity, 167 

JAMES  ABRAHAM  HILLHOUSE, 169 

Close  of  the  Vision, 174 

Hadad — A  Dramatic  Poem.     Act  First,  Scene  in,         ....       175 

Act  Second,  Scene  n, 180 

Act  Fifth,  Scene  ill, 181 

Demetria — A  Tragedy.     Act  First,  Scene  n, 182 

Percy's  Masque — A  Drama.     Act  First,  Scene  n.          ....      184 

DR.   SOLYMAN  BROWN, 187 

Living  Beauty, 188 

I   Seraphina, 190 


p*S*~>^S-^f~*~r**sr^~*^~*^^*-*^-^^~r^^^^ 

CONTENTS.  IX 

To  Elizabeth, 192 

The  Emigrant's  Farewell, ••        -        -  194 

MRS.  LYDIA  HUNT-LEY  SIGOURNEY, 195 

The  Forest  Girl, 196 

The  Bridal, 198 

The  Death-scene, 199 

The  American  Indians, 201 

The  Return  of  Napoleon  from  St.  Helena, 202 

The  Western  Emigrant, 205 

The  Appeal, 207 

Niagara, 209 

Bernardine  Du  Born, 210 

Death  of  an  Infant, .        -      211 

To  Southey, 212 

The  Butterfly, 212 

SAMUEL  GRISWOLD  GOODRICH, 213 

Memory  of  Home, 214 

The  Confession, 216 

The  Leaf, 219 

Lake  Superior, 219 

To  Ellen, 220 

FITZ-GREEN  HALLECK, 221 

Burns, 222 

Connecticut, 226 

Red  Jacket, 229 

Marco  Bozzaris, 232 

Love, 235 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  Joseph  Rodman  Drake, 236 

DR,  JAMES  GATES  PERCIVAL, 237 

The  Departure, 238 

The  Return, 241 

The  Sun,        - 244 

To  the  Eagle, 246 

New  England, 248 

Escape  from  Winter, 250 

The  Coral  Grove, 251 

To  Seneca  Lake,       -  252 

THEODORE  DWIGHT,  JR., 253 

Grief  of  Clarinda.— From  the  Italian,         -\   -.        .        -        -        .        .254 

Italy, 255 

Stanzas, 256 

Lines  to  Mrs.  Sigourney,  on  her  Departure  for  Europe,         ...      257 

JOHN  GARDNER  CALKINS  BRAINARD, 259 

To  the  Connecticut  River, --261 

Jerusalem,          _..---...---  266 

Qui  Transtulit,  Sustinet, 268 

Saturday  Night  at  Sea, 269 

The  Fall  of  Niagara,      ....        - 270 

Leather  Stocking,       ------ 271 

Mr.  Merry's  Lament  for  "Lone  Tom,"  -        - 272 

Stanzas— The  Dead  Leaves  Strew  the  Forest  Walk,        -        ...  273 

The  Deep, 274 

Epithalamium,   ------------  275 

African  Colonization,      ----------       275 

Lines  to  the  Memory  of  the  Rev.  Levi  Parsons, 276 


PROSPER  MONTGOMERY 
Lexington,      • 
Greece,      .... 
Twelve  Years  have  Flown, 
Song,         .... 


DR.  WILLIAM  HENRY  BRADLEY, 
Story-Telling, 

Napoleon,  * 


290 

••        -         -         -        -        -    ,   -        -        .294 
-        -        -        -      296 

WETMORE, 299 

-  300 
"i        -        -        - 304 

-----       305 
-  30G 

-'' 307 

307 

-  311 


ASA  MOORE  BOLLES,          - 
To  "11  Penseroso,"        -         -        .      .'•• 
Night  Scene  on  the  Banks  of  the  Potomac, 
To  Julia,         ...... 

To  ...... 


315 

315 

317 

319 

320 

321 

322 

324 

320 

-      329 
-  330 

332 

333 

I  Think  of  Thee,   -  334 

REV.   NORMAN  PINNEY, 335 

Sabbath  Morning, 335 

Midsummer  Moonlight,       --------- 


GEORGE  DENISON  PRENTICE, 
Lines  on  a  Distant  View  of  the  Ocean, 
The  Closing  Year,          -      -  .     .  - 
Lines  to  a  Lady,         .... 
A  Night  in  June,     -        •      .  •• 
Sabbath  Evening,  ,  .*    .    - 

The  Dead  Mariner,         ... 
Written  at  my  Mother's  Grave, 


Sonnet,  - 
Sonnet,  To 
To  


REV.  JOSEPH  HULBERT  NICHOLS, 
Josephine,       ..... 
A  Connecticut  Christinas  Eve,  - 
A  New  England  Village, 
The  Falls  of  the  Housatonic,     - 


337 


339 
340 
341 
344 
346 


GEORGE  HILL, 277 

Athens, 277 

Song  of  the  Elfin  Steersman, 281 

The  Fall  of  the  Oak, 282  j 

Leila, 283   j 

Love  and  Reason,       ---..----..  284   ) 
The  Battle  of  San  Jacinto,      .........      285   ( 

To  a  Coin  found  on  the  Plains  of  Troy, 286   S 

The  Mariner's  Adieu, '*.-..        .        .288 

EDWARD  A.  M'LAUGHLIN, 289 

The  Gale,       -  

The  Wreck,        .        -        •        •        -        -         -  -    .  • 

The  Deliverance,   ---.-.--.. 


HUGH  PETERS, '     -'      -      349  ( 

My  Native  Land, -        -        -350 

The  Parting, 352   j 

A  Yankee  Lyric, 354   < 

Robert  Dale  Owen, 355 

Sonnet  ad  Poetas, 356   ) 

To  the  Moon, 356 

— •— > 


CONTENTS.  XI 

JAMES  OTIS  ROCKWELL, 357 

The  Iceberg, 358 

The  Lost  at  Sea, 360 

The  Intemperate, 361 

The  Sum  of  Life, 363 

To  the  Ice  Mountain, 364 

To  a  Wave, 365 

The  Death-bed  of  Beauty, 366 

ROSWELL  PARK, 367 

Cooperstown, 368 

The  Communion, 371 

Morning, 372 

New  Year's  Ode, 373 

JESSE  ERSKINE  Dow, 375 

Tadmor  of  the  Wilderness, 376 

Lines  on  Seeing  General  McNeil  Knocking  at  the  Door  of  the  President's 

House,  -  -  -  -  -  - 379 

Lines  Occasioned  by  the  Debate  in  the  United  States  Senate  on  the 

Oregon  Bill, 380 

The  Last  Revolutionary, 382 

MRS.  ANN  S.  STEPHENS,    .........  383 

The  Mother,    -        -        -        -        -        -        •      •'-        -        -        -     '    .      383 

The  Old  Apple  Tree, 385 

Fame,       .............       388 

Song  of  the  Spring  Breeze, 389 

Song, - 390 

WILLIAM  HENRY  BURLETGH,     -  391 

Agatha, 391 

A  New  Year's  Fancy,         .  394 

June, -. 398 

We  are  Scattered,      .        -        -        -        - 399 

Song, 401 

Morning,     --. 402 

MRS.   LAURA  M.  THURSTON, 403 

On  Crossing  the  Alleganies, 403 

The  Paths  of  Life, 405 

The  Green  Hills  of  my  Father-Land, 407 

Parting  Hymn, 409 

Elegaic  Stanzas, 410 

MARTHA  DAY, 411 

The  Dove, 412 

The  Comet's  Flight, 415 

Hymn, 417 

Lines —On  Psalm  en :  25,  26, 418 

MARY  ANN  HANMER  DODD, 419 

To  a  Mourner, 419 

The  Dreamer, 421 

To  a  Cricket. 422 

Day-Dreaming, 424 

June, 425 

Song, 426 


<  XII  CONTENTS. 

[       RICHARD  BACON,  JR., 427 

<  The  Winds, 428 

5  The  Last  Woman, 429 

<  The  Captive  Flower, •        -        -        -      431 

Trust  in  Heaven, 432 

The  Young  Mother, 434 

JAMES  DIXON,       -        -        .        -       «       .'.-....  435 

The  Fountain  of  Youth, 435 

The  Indian  Summer, 437 

Sonnet  to  Mrs.  Sigourney, 439 

Moonlight  in  June,      -        -        -       .»    .    -,  *        •        -        -        -  439 

Connecticut  River,          - 440 

Sunset  after  a  Storm, 440 

To  a  Robin, 440 

A  Ramble  in  the  Woods, 441 

Wild  Flowers, 441 

Autumn,      -- 442 

A  Summer  Day  in  Autumn, 442 

The  Departed  Year,    -        - 443 

The  New  Year, 443 

May, *'"'.,•• 443 

Morning,          -        -        ....        .        -        -        .        .        .        -        .      444 

WILLIAM  THOMPSON  BACON, 445 

A  Midnight  Meditation, 445 

Other  Days, 449 

Fanny  Willoughby, 453 

Rome, 454 

The  Island, 455 

EBENEZER  PORTER  MASON, 457 

Night  Musings,  ............  457 

To  a  Rosebud, 460 

On  Revisiting  the  Scenes  of  Childhood, 461 

The  Summer  Evening,   -----.....      462 

GEORGE  SHEPARD  BURLEIGH, 463 

Nunketunk,     - 463 

Grief's  Blessings, *  467 

Hospitality, - 468 


THE 


POETS  OF  CONNECTICUT 


HON.   ROGER  WOLCOTT. 

[Born  1679.    Died  1767.] 

WE  commence  our  work  with  the  name  of  the  Hon.  ROGER 
WOLCOTT.  Although  his  verses  are  quaint  relics  of  a  by-gtfne  age, 
their  author  must  not  be  passed  by  in  silence.  He  is  the  Chaucer 
of  our  "  goodly  companie  " — and  must  lead  the  van  of  "  the  Poets 
of  Connecticut." 

ROGER  WOLCOTT,  son  of  SIMON  WOLCOTT,  and  grandson  of  HENRY 
WOLCOTT,  the  founder  of  the  WOLCOTT  family  in  Connecticut,  was 
born  at  Windsor,  on  the  4th  of  January,  1679.  During  his  childhood 
schools  were  unknown  in  his  native  town.  The  constant  fear  of 
Indian  incursions,  and  the  watchful  vigilance  which  this  fear  neces 
sarily  occasioned,  utterly  forbid,  in  those  troublous  times,  any  attempts 
to  maintain  them.  Consequently,  all  those  advantages,  which  every 
child  may  now  enjoy,  were  denied  to  young  WOLCOTT.  His  only 
instruction,  and  that  too  in  the  simplest  branches — the  mere  rudiments 
of  an  English  education — was  derived  from  his  father,  whom  he  had 
the  misfortune  to  lose  when  he  was  about  nine  years  old.  At  the  age 
of  twelve  he  was  bound  as  an  apprentice  to  a  mechanic  ;  and  hence 
forward  he  was  compelled  to  rely  entirely  upon  his  own  exertions,  both 
for  his  temporal  support,  and  his  acquisitions  in  learning.  To  this 
circumstance  it  is  very  probably  owing  that-bis  name  has  come  down 
to  us.  Had  his  childhood  been  passed  in  pampered  indulgence,  his 
youth  might  have  been  wasted  in  slothful  indolence,  and  his  name 
might  never  have  graced  the  page  of  history,  or  been  known  upon 
the  scroll  of  letters. 

At  the  age  of  twenty-one,  Mr.  WOLCOTT  established  himself  in 


business  in  his  native  town,  upon  the  east  side  of  the  river,  (now 
East  Windsor,)  and  has  left  us  a  noble  example  of  what  talents  and 
industry  can  achieve,  unaided  by  any  circumstances  of  birth  or  for 
tune.  By  patient  labor,  and  habits  of  necessary  frugality,  his  exer 
tions  were  crowned  with  a  competent  fortune.  By  such  cultivation 
of  his  talents  as  a  diligent  use  of  his  leisure  hours  afforded — by  read 
ing  and  reflection — he  soon  became  an  object  of  high  esteem,  and 
succeeded  to  almost  every  honorable  office,  civil  and  military.  In 
the  unsuccessful  expedition  against  Canada,  in  1711,  he  held  the 
office  of  Commissary  of  the  Connecticut  forces;  and  was  second  in 
command,  with  the  rank  of  Major  General,  at  the  capture  of  Louis- 
burg,  in  1745.  He  was  successively  a  member  of  the  Assembly  and 
of  the  Council,  Judge  of  the  County  Court,  Deputy  Governor,  and 
Chief  Judge  of  the  Superior  Court;  and  was  Governor  of  the  Colony 
of  Connecticut  from  1751  to  1754.  After  this  period  he  retired  to 
private  life,  and  died  May  17,  1767,  in  the  eighty-ninth  year  of  his 
age.  He  was  interred  in  the  burial-ground  of  the  First  Congrega 
tional  Church  in  his  native  town,  and  the  following  inscription  is 
recorded  upon  his  tomb  : 

Here  lyeth  the  body  of  the  Hon.  ROGER  WOLCOTT,  Esq.  of  Windsor,  who  for 
several  years  was  Governor  of  the  Colony  of  Connecticut,  died  May  17th, 
Anno  ^Etatis  89,  Salutis  1767. 

"  Earth's  highest  station  ends  in  '  Here  he  lies,' 
And  '  dust  to  dust'  concludes  her  noblest  song." 

Such  is  a  brief  outline  of  Gov.  WOLCOTT'S  public  career.  His 
private  history,  so  far  as  its  record  is  preserved,  reflects  honor  upon 
his  memory.  In  the  walks  of  humble  life  he  was  meek  and  unob 
trusive:  in  his  exaltation  free,  affable,  easy  of  access,  and  void  of 
arrogance.  He  was  for  many  years  a  member  of  the  Congregational 
Church,  and  adorned  his  profession  by  a  course  of  consistent  piety. 
After  his  retirement  from  public  life  he  devoted  a  large  share  of  his 
time  to  reading  and  religious  meditation,  and  died  in  the  full  faith 

}  and  cheering  assurances  of  the  Gospel. 

j       As  a  Poet,  we  certainly  cannot  claim  for  our  author  a  very  high 

<  rank.     The  times  in  which  he  lived — full  of  stirring  incident  and 

<  danger — while  calculated  to  incite  a  poetic  spirit,  were  little  favora- 
(  ble  to  the  cultivation  of  literature.     His  early  education,  moreover, 

as  we  have  already  observed,  had  been  very  deficient.  Notwith 
standing  all  these  disadvantages,  he  gained  some  distinction  as  a 
literary  man,  and  in  1725  published  at  New  London  a  small  volume, 
entitled  "  Poetical  Meditations ;  being  the  Improvement  of  some 
Vacant  Hours."  A  long,  pedantic  Preface,  from  the  pen  of  a  clerical^ 
friend  of  the  author,  precedes  the  volume,  and  a  clothier's  adver 
tisement  concludes  it.  We  pass  by  the  "  Advertisement,"  and  the 


Preface  also,  after  quoting  its  first  sentence :  "  The  busy  and  restless  s 
Soul  of  man,  which  in  all  Ages  has  been  fruitful  in  Many  Inventions,  \ 
as  it  has  been  greatly  Disserviceable  to  the  Good  and  Comfort  of 
Humane  Life  by  the  Discovery  of  things  Prejudicial  to  it ;  so  at  the 
same  time  may  we  not  say,  has  made  some  Compensation  by  the 
Invention  of  others  of  a  Proportionable  Advantage  and  Benefit." 
Such  is  the  inverted  and  obscure  style  of  a  paper  engrossing  over 
sixty  pages  of  the  volume. 

The  principal  poem  in  the  book  is  entitled  "  A  Brief  Account  of  ] 
the  Agency  of  the  Honourable  JOHN  WINTHROP,  Esq.,  in  the  Court  ( 
of  King  CHARLES  the  Second,  Anno  Domini  1662,  when  he  obtained  c 
for  the  Colony  of  Connecticut  His  Majesty's  Gracious  Charter."  \ 
It  contains  about  fifteen  hundred  lines.  The  "  scene  "  is  in  London  ; 
and  the  hero,  WINTHROP,  is  made  to  narrate  to  his  Gracious  Majesty 
a  complete  history  of  the  first  settlement  of  Connecticut — a  descrip 
tion  of  the  country — the  various  fortunes  of  the  settlers,  together 
with  a  sketch  of  the  Pequot  war — and  concludes  with  preferring  the 
petition  with  which  he  had  been  intrusted  by  the  colonists.  The  ear 
of  Majesty  was  propitious — the  boon  conferred — and  the  reply  of  the 
Royal  Auditor  concludes  the  "Account."  This  poem  is  preserved 
in  the  "  Collections  of  the  Massachusetts  Historical  Society,  First 
Series,  Vol.  4  ;"  and  extracts  from  it  have  appeared  in  different  poet 
ical  collections.  But  we  think  it  by  no  means  the  best  of  the 
"  Meditations."  It  is  extremely  prosaic,  abounding  in  extravagant 
expressions,  and  loaded  with  stiff  and  unnatural  figures.  With  the 
alteration  of  a  few  leading  historical  facts,  it  would  better  describe 
the  adventures  of  early  Greeks  or  Romans,  than  English  Colonists 
and  American  Indians.  It  possesses  no  originality  of  design,  and 
is  a  feeble  imitation  of  the  epics  of  antiquity.  We  shall  make  but 
one  selection,  and  that  from  the  concluding  reply  of  the  King.  It  is 
at  least  a  fair  specimen  of  the  poem,  as  such,  and  contains  truths 
which  are  too  little  borne  in  mind.  In  this,  as  in  all  our  selections, 
we  shall  observe  the  peculiar  orthography  of  the  original : 

And  may  the  people  of  that  Happy  Place, 
Whom  thou  hast  so  Endeared  to  My  Grace, 
Till  time's  last  Exit,  through  succeeding  Ages, 
Be  Blest  with  Happy  English  Privileges. 
And  that  they  may  be  so,  bear  thou  from  hence 
To  them  these  Premonitions  from  their  Prince. 

First,  Let  all  Officers  in  Civil  Trust, 
Always  Espouse  their  Country's  Interest. 
Let  Law  and  Right  be  Precious  in  their  Eyes, 
And  hear  the  Poor  Man's  Cause  whene'er  he  Crys. 
Preserve  Religion  Pure,  and  Understand 
That  is  the  Firmest  Pillar  of  a  Land : 


Let  it  be  kept  in  Credit  in  the  Court, 
And  never  fail  for  want  of  due  Support. 

And  let  the  Sacred  Order  of  the  Gown 
With  Zeal  apply  the  Business  that's  their  own. 
So  Peace  may  Spring  from  th'  Earth,  and  Righteousness 
Look  down  from  Heaven,  Truth  and  Judgment  Kiss. 

Then,  Let  the  Freemen  of  your  Corporation 
Always  beware  of  the  Insinuation 
Of  those  which  always  Brood  Complaint  and  Fear; 
Such  Plagues  are  Dangerous  to  Infect  the  Air; 
Such  Men  are  Over-Laden  with  Compassion, 
Having  Men's  Freedom  in  such  Admiration, 
That  every  Act  of  Order  or  Restraint 
They'll  Represent  as  matter  of  Complaint. 
And  this  is  no  New  Doctrine ;  't  is  a  Rule 
Was  taught  in  Satan's  first  Erected  School. 
It  serv'd  his  turn  with  wonderful  Success, 
And  ever  since  has  been  his  Master-piece. 
'Tis  true  the  sleight  by  which  that  field  he  won, 
Was  argued  from  man's  benefit  alone. 
But  these  outdo  him  in  that  way  of  Evil, 
And  will  sometimes  for  God's  sake  play  the  Devil. 

And  Lastly,  Let  Your  New  English  Multitude 
Remember  well  a  bond  of  Gratitude 
Will  Lye  on  them,  and  their  Posterity, 
To  bear  in  mind  their  Freedom  came  by  Thee. 

Beside  this,  and  a  poetical  dedication,  addressed  "  To  the  Reve 
rend  Mr.  Timothy  Edwards,"  there  are  six  minor  poems  which 
appear  to  us  to  possess  the  largest  share  of  interest.  They  are  all 
upon  religious  subjects,  of  unequal  merit,  and  of  course  characterized 
by  the  quaint  style  and  expression  which  marked  all  the  writers  of 
that  period.  One  of  these,  from  Proverbs  xvi :  18 — for  the  most 
part  unreadable — concludes  with  some  very  fine  lines. 

The  author  is  speaking  of  his  final  accountability  for  all  trans 
gressions  : 

Tho'  unobserv'd,  tho'  multiply'd 

so  that  all  numbers  they  surmount, 
The  smallest  of  them  shall  not  hide, 

nor  be  forgot  in  that  account. 
And  in  that  awful  Reckoning  Day 

escape  his  Vengeance  shall  not  1, 
Unless  exactly  I  repay 

each  Talent  down  with  usury. 
If  it  be  so — say  how  shall  I 

improve  those  gifts  he  hath  bestow'd  ? 
He  says,  with  men  deal  equally, 

and  walk  thou  humbly  with  thy  God  : 


HON.    ROGER    WOLCOTT. 

Serve  him  with  awful  Reverence — 

't  is  thus  thou  must  thy  gifts  improve  ; 
And  if  I  fail  thro'  Impotence, 

the  Law  may  be  fulfill'd  by  Love. 
For  tho'  He's  Just,  He's  good  also  : 

the  one  doth  not  confound  the  other : 
His  Justice  and  his  goodness  too 

both  set  on  equal  Thrones  together. 

We  shall  present  a  few  of  these  minor  poems  complete,  and  thus 
take  leave  of  our  Author. 


MEDITATIONS 

On  Man's  First  and  Fallen  Estate,  and  the  Wonderful  Love  of  GOD 
exhibited  in  a  Redeemer. 

Once  did  I  view  a  fragrant  Flower  fair 
Till  thro'  the  optick  windows  of  mine  Eye 
The  sweet  discovery  of  its  beauties  rare 
Did  much  affect  and  Charm  my  fantasie, 
To  see  how  bright  and  sweetly  it  did  shine 
In  beauties  that  were  purely  Genuine. 

But  Lo,  the  dire  Effects  of  baneful  Pride ; 

A  weed,  whose  savour  was  Pestiferous, 

Did  vie  with  this  fair  flower  Qualify'd 

With  many  Vertues  Odoriferous  ; 

This  fragrant  flower  which  to  affect  the  sense 
Had  Beauties,  Grace,  and  Vertue's  Excellence. 

Not  being  Content  unworthily  to  stand 

In  the  dark  Corner  of  some  mead  obscure, 

Or  in  some  rough  uncultivated  Land 

Which  the  painful  Husbandman  did  nev'r  manure  ; 
Or  in  some  dismal  wood  where  Mischief  Lyes, 
And  Ravens  croak  their  fatal  Auguries. 

But  by  a  bold  Insulting  Disposition 

Presumes  into  a  famous  Garden  fair  ; 

And  more  to  Manifest  its  bold  Ambition, 

Vies  with  the  fairest  flowers  that  were  there  ; 
And  by  its  growth  the  flowers  so  overtops 
That  it  bereaved  them  of  Heaven's  drops. 


18  POETS    OF    CONNECTICUT. 

/-^•^/•>_^^-N_X-N^^X-/^X^/-N_/-N^->^^N^^ 

Collecting  of  the  Nutrimental  juice 
That's  of  the  Earth,  it  did  Monopolize 
The  same  to  its  own  benefit  and  Use, 
Also  the  benediction  of  the  Skies. 

Thus  to  its  Baseness  makes  subservient 
Earth's  fruitfulness  and  Heaven's  dews'  descent. 

The  Flowers  thus  Injuriously  ov'r-topt 

Began  to  darken,  perish,  fade  and  dye ; 

Their  beauty  Lost  and  all  their  Grace  was  Cropt ; 

Their  Savour  soon  became  unsavoury ; 

For  having  Lost  the  Sun's  sweet  Influence, 
They  with  it  lost  their  Grace  and  Excellence. 

Nor  were  they  in  this  Deplorable  state 
Able  to  work  their  Liberty  and  Ease ; 
None  but  the  Gardiner  can  Extricate 
Them  from  their  Bondage,  and  give  them  release. 
Many  Instructions  may  from  hence  arise, 
If  on  this  Embleme  we  do  Moralize. 

Tie  take  occasion  hence  to  Contemplate 

Fair  Paradise  in  its  prime  Excellence  ; 

But  most  of  all  the  Glorious  Estate 

Of  our  first  Father  in  his  Innocence, 
Who  was  the  flower  of  that  Garden,  and 
A  Garden  in  which  many  flowers  did  stand. 

His  body  with  such  Comliness  was  deck't 

As  did  declare  this  famous  Faberick 

Was  of  no  ordinary  Architect, 

But  the  Almighties  Glorious  work-manship ; 
Being  fearfully  and  wonderfully  made, 
By  him  that  needeth  not  a  foreign  aid. 

His  parts,  proportion,  and  rare  Simmetrie 

Shew'd  forth  his  Glorious  uniformal  Grace  ; 

His  pleasant  and  yet  awful  Majestic 

Appeared  in  the  figure  of  his  face  : 
Where  ruby  ruddiness  did  beautify 
The  lily  white  with  a  Vermillion  dye. 


HON.     ROGER     WOLCOTT. 

,*N^N_^_^^-\_^^->^-X_^-N_^V^-X^-^/-^^ 

Behold  him  there  made  Misne  Lord  of  all 

The  whole  Creation  that  was  sublunary ; 

And  all  the  Creatures  made  that  so  they  shall 

Unto  his  Comfort  be  Contributary  ; 

He  was  to  take  their  Tributes,  and  again 
Offer  them  up  unto  his  Sovereign. 

His  understanding  was  so  Excellent 
That  he  was  able  by  his  Knowledge  Great 
Names  to  all  Creatures  in  his  Government 
To  give ;  Ev'n  such  as  were  most  adequate, 

Unto  their  Inclinations  Natural ; 

O  wondrous  wisdom  Philosophycall. 

But  was  that  Knowledge  and  discerning  Skill 
The  Sole  perfection  of  this  noble  Nature? 
0  no  ;  he  was  possessed  with  a  will 
Able  to  Love  and  serve  his  great  Creator. 
To  apprehend  him  as  his  Chiefest  Good, 
And  prize  him  more  than  his  appointed  food. 

He  was  Commissionated  to  remain 

In  this  Estate  to  perpetuity ; 

Here  might  he  Live,  rejoice  in  God,  and  Reign 

Throughout  the  Ages  of  Eternity. 

And  of  all  the  Delights  and  fruits  of  Eden, 
Only  the  Tree  of  Knowledge  was  forbidden. 

But  Lo,  the  dire  Effects  of  baneful  Pride  : 
Man  being  made  in  Honour  thus  to  nourish, 
Did  not  a  night  in  that  Estate  abide, 
But  soon  became  like  to  the  beasts  that  perish. 
Abusing  of  his  Liberty  of  will, 
Against  his  Sovereign  Lord  he  did  rebel. 

For  casting  off  that  Reverential  awe 
He  ow'd  unto  God's  Sacred  Majestie, 
Against  the  Comminations  of  his  Law 
He  did  rebel ;  and  in  rebellion  he 

The  Sacramental  Tree  of  Life  neglected, 
And  eat  of  that  which  God  had  Interdicted. 


19 


And  for  endeavoring  to  Equalize 

The  Lord's  Omniscience,  is  quite  ruinated ; 

And  hath  his  Soul  in  all  its  Faculties 

Strangely  Besotted  and  Infatuated : 

For  having  once  rebell'd  against  his  duty, 
Opacous  Sin  soon  blasted  all  his  beauty. 

Now  we  have  Lost  Ability  to  Climb 
The  steps  of  Providence  unto  God's  Throne : 
Our  Souls  (alas)  are  now  too  Insublime 
To  Seat  and  Settle  our  Affections  on 
The  Pinnacle  of  all  Perfection, 
Whose  Vision  Satisfys  th'  Affection. 

But  through  a  Poisonous  Impetuous  Rage, 
Our  minds  we  to  these  Earthly  Objects  glew : 
And  tho'  we  find  they  can't  our  Thirst  asswage, 
The  more  we're  Dis-appointed  we  pursue. 
Thus  do  we  prostitute  our  vast  affection, 
To  yield  to  our  Inferiours  subjection. 

But  when  we  sunk  under  this  misery, 
And  all  help  failed  us  on  every  side ; 
No  Creature  could  find  out  a  way  whereby 
Justice  Offended  might  be  Satisfy'd ; 
To  do  that  work  our  Saviour  undertook, 
As  it  was  writ  i'  th'  Volumn  of  the  book. 

The  Love  that  gave  him,  oh !  't  was  Infinite  ; 

The  Person  suffering  was  most  Excellent ; 

The  Pains  he  suffered  were  most  Exquisite  ; 

And  Glorious  was  the  blessed  Consequent ! 
With  wonderment  and  Ravishing  surprize 
The  Angels  Contemplate  these  Mysteries. 

AND 

When  I.behold  th'  Heavens'  wond'rous  frame, 
The  Sun  and  Moon  shining  in  Beauty  bright, 
Which  thou  hast  made  to  Magnify  thy  Name, 
By  thy  Almighty  power  Infinite — 

And  View  the  Stars  in  their  celestial  ranging, 
Not  Jostling  in  all  their  interchanging : 


HON.     ROGER     WOLCOTT. 


21 


Oh  what  is  man,  that  thou  shouldest  allow 
Him  to  Inherit  thy  divine  compassion  ? 
What  is  the  sinful  Son  of  man,  that  thou 
Should'st  grant  to  him  thy  Spirit's  visitation  ? 
And  suffer  thine  Eternal  SON  to  dye, 
To  Reconcile  thy  stubborn  Enemy ! 


MATTHEW    X:  28. 

And  fear  not  them  that  can  kill  the  body,  but  are  not  able  to  kill  the  Soul ; 
But  rather  fear  Him  which  is  able  to  destroy  both  Soul  and  Body  in  Hell. 

And  is  our  Life  a  life  wherein  we  borrow 
No  not  the  smallest  respite  from  our  Sorrow  ? 
Our  Profits,  are  they  but  some  Yellow  Dust, 
Subject  to  Loss,  to  Canker-eat,  and  Rust  ? 
Whose  very  Image  breedeth  ceaseless  Cares, 
In  every  Mind  where  it  Dominion  bears  ? 
And  are  our  Pleasures  mainly  in  Excess, 
Which  genders  Guilt,  and  ends  in  Bitterness  ? 
Are  Honours  fickle  and  dependent  Stuff, 
Oft-times  blown  furthest  from  us  by  a  Puff  ? 
Doth  pale-faced  Envy  wait  at  every  Stage, 
To  bite  and  wound  us  in  our  Pilgrimage  ? 


Then  him  for  Happy  I  will  never  Praise, 
That's  filPd  with  Honour,  Wealth,  or  length  of  Days 
But  Happy  he,  though  in  a  Dying  Hour, 
O're  whom  the  Second  Death  obtains  no  power. 


PROVERBS   XXXI:   10. 

Who  can  find  a  Vertuous  Woman,  for  her  Price  is  far  above  Rubies. 

Vertue's  a  Babe,  first  born  in  Paradice, 
And  hath  by  birth  priority  of  Vice. 
Vertue  is  all  that's  good  we  brought  from  thence 
The  dear  remains  of  our  first  Innocence. 
Vertue  still  makes  the  Vertuous  to  shine, 
Like  those  that  Liv'd  in  the  first  week  of  time. 


POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Vertue  hath  force  the  vile  to  cleanse  again, 
So  being  like  clear  shining  after  Rain. 
A  Kind  and  Constant,  Chearful  Vertuous  Life, 
Becomes  each  Man,  and  most  Adorns  a  Wife. 

But  such  a  Vertue,  ah,  where  shall  we  find, 
That's  Bright,  especially  in  Woman  Kind  ? 
If  such  an  one  had  been  on  Earth,  no  doubt 
Searching  King  Solomon  had  found  her  out. 

But  stay,  my  Muse,  nor  may  we  thence  conclude 
There  is  not  One  in  all  their  Multitude : 
For  tho'  it  be  too  True,  that  Solomon 
Amongst  a  Thousand  found  not  such  an  one ; 
It  follows  not  at  all  but  such  an  one 
Among  an  Hundred  Thousand  may  be  shown ; 
Which  if  she  may,  her  Price  beyond  Compare 
Excels  the  Price  of  Rubies  very  fair. 


PSALM    LXIV:   6. 

The  heart  is  deep. 

He  that  can  trace  a  Ship  making  her  way 
Amidst  the  threatening  Surges  on  the  Sea ; 
Or  track  a  Towering  Eagle  in  the  Air, 
Or  on  a  Rock  find  the  Impressions  there 
Made  by  a  Serpent's  Footsteps ;  Who  Surveys 
The  Subtile  Intreagues  that  a  Young  Man  lays 
In  his  Sly  Courtship  of  an  harmless  Maid, 
Whereby  his  Wanton  Amours  are  Conveyed 
Into  her  Breast ;  'T  is  he  alone  that  can 
Find  out  the  Cursed  Policies  of  Man. 


^"->_/-%_/-> — / 


REV.     AARON     CLEVELAND.  23 


REV.  AARON  CLEVELAND. 

[Born  1744.    Died  1815.] 

IT  will  doubtless  surprise  as  it  will  gratify  many  of  our  readers  to 
see  the  name  of  Rev.  AARON  CLEVELAND  in  this  connection.  He 
published  but  few  articles,  and  these  all  anonymously.  He  did  not 
claim  for  himself  the  title  of  a  poet — nor  has  it  before  been  claimed 
for  him.  Yet  we  deem  it  no  more  than  an  act  of  justice  to  grant  him 
a  place  in  our  volume.  Many  of  his  articles  are  lost.  For  those 
now  in  our  possession,  as  also  for  the  biographical  data,  we  are 
indebted  to  his  grandson,  Rev.  ARTHUR  CLEVELAND  COXE,  of  Hart 
ford,  who  has  fully  inherited  the  poetical  genius  of  his  worthy  pro 
genitor. 

Mr.  CLEVELAND  was  born  in  Haddam,  on  the  3d  of  February, 
1744.  He  was  the  son  of  the  Rev.  AARON  CLEVELAND,  who  at  that 
time  resided  at  Haddam,  as  a  Congregational  minister ;  but  after 
ward  conforming  to  the  Church  of  England,  and  receiving  Holy 
Orders  from  Bishop  SHERLOCK,  of  London,  was  a  missionary  of  the 
"  Society  for  the  Propagation  of  the  Gospel,"  and  for  some  time 
officiated  at  Lewes  and  Newcastle  in  Delaware.  His  talents  and 
accomplishments  gave  him  an  honorable  place  in  the  literary  society 
of  that  day,  and  his  death  occurred  at  Philadelphia,  in  1757,  while 
he  was  on  a  visit  to  his  friend,  Dr.  FRANKLIN. 

The  subject  of  this  sketch  being  thus  left  an  orphan  at  the  early 
age  of  thirteen,  was  returned  to  his  Connecticut  friends  to  be  brought 
up.  The  estate  of  a  missionary  left  him  but  little  to  depend  upon  ; 
and  he  was  unable  therefore  to  perfect  his  education  at  college,  as 
his  father  had  done  with  credit  to  himself,  at  Harvard  University. 
His  poem,  "THE  PHILOSOPHER  AND  BOY,"  written  at  the  early  age  of 
nineteen,  though  here  given  with  some  subsequent  revision,  will 
show  that  he  was  not,  however,  behind  his  coevals  in  literary  accom 
plishments  ;  and  (judging  from  his  description  of  himself  as  a  botanic 
enthusiast,)  not  without  pretensions  to  scientific  attainment.  Being 
admitted  to  the  ministry  of  the  Congregational  Church,  he  employed 
himself  in  his  official  duties  with  great  faithfulness  and  noiseless 
benevolence  ;  being  distinguished  for  peculiar  and  child-like  tender 
ness  of  spirit,  with  great  and  uncontrollable  powers  of  wit  and 
humor.  The  latter  characteristic,  while  from  his  harmless  use  of  its 
advantages,  it  gained  him  much  applause,  and  made  his  society  dear 


J 


POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

alike  to  young  and  old,  was  to  himself  the  source  of  much  humilia 
tion  and  sorrow.  This  feeling  is  conspicuous  in  his  lines,  entitled 
"  FAMILY  BLOOD  :  A  BURLESQUE  ;  "  and  many  affectionate  warnings 
are  preserved  among  his  descendants,  dissuading  them  from  the 
employment  of  this  dangerous  talent,  should  it  prove  an  hereditary 
possession.  He  regarded  its  indulgence  (but  in  his  own  case  over- 
scrupulously,)  as  often  doing  violence  to  the  dignity  of  official  deport 
ment,  not  to  say  to  the  soberness  of  Christian  character. 

Among  many  anecdotes  illustrative  of  his  powers  of  repartee,  one 
is  perhaps  worth  recording.  He  was  a  federalist  of  the  school  of 
JAY  and  HAMILTON,  whom  he  supported  with  more  than  ordinary 
zeal,  and  perhaps  not  without  something  of  the  prejudice  which 
ranked  all  Jeffersonians  with  French  fatalists  and  infidels.  Taking 
once  a  horseback  ride  between  Middletown  and  Durham,  he  stopped  at 
a  little  stream  which  bounds  the  two  towns,  to  allow  his  horse  to 
drink :  at  the  same  moment  a  young  man  drove  up  hastily  on  the 
opposite  side,  and  quite  unnecessarily  disturbing  the  water,  reined 
his  own  horse  for  the  same  purpose.  "  Good  morning,  Mr.  Minis 
ter,"  said  the  stranger.  "  Good  morning,  Mr.  Democrat,"  said  Mr. 
CLEVELAND.  "  And  pray  why  do  you  take  me  for  a  democrat  1 "  he 
rejoined.  "  Pray  why  did  you  take  me  for  a  minister  1 "  "  Oh,  that 
is  plain  by  your  dress."  "  And  that  you  are  a  democrat,  is  plain  by 
your  address." 

Beside  one  or  two  sermons,  Mr.  CLEVELAND  published  nothing 
but  a  poem  on  Slavery,  which  appeared  in  1775,  and  a  few  fugitive 
pieces,  chiefly  satires  on  democracy,  and  some  events  of  the  last 
war.  The  poem  on  Slavery  is  in  blank  verse,  but  is  argumentative, 
and  didactic  to  so  great  a  degree  as  to  illustrate  very  little  the  poeti 
cal  powers  he  exhibited  in  minor  productions.  His  family  are  justly 
proud  of  it,  nevertheless,  for  the  ripe  and  enlightened  views  it 
expresses  both  of  the  slave  trade  and  of  oppression  in  general,  at  a 
time  when  the  world  was  asleep  to  its  awful  enormity.  The  two 
specimens  of  his  muse  which  we  here  present,  are  poems  heretofore 
unpublished,  which  have  been  kept  as  family  relics,  and  are  now 
contributed  as  a  hint  of  the  facility  which  he  possessed  in  verse. 
It  is  to  be  regretted  that  he  himself  put  no  value  on  them,  and  left 
them  evidently  without  the  remotest  view  to  publication  ;  as  he  did 
also  several  other  productions,  which  were  long  preserved  memoriter 
by  a  relative  since  deceased,  but  which,  it  is  supposed,  have  expired 
with  him. 

"  THE  PHILOSOPHER  AND  BOY  "  is,  to  say  the  least,  a  good  poem  for 
a  boy-philosopher;  and  evinces  a  love  of  nature,  a  habit  of  thinking 
and  mental  exercise,  a  tender  heart,  and  lively  descriptive  powers. 
It  was  to  control  a  child-like  sensibility,  which  he  retained  through 
life,  that  he  thus  represented  himself,  both  in  the  boy  and  the  man, 


REV.     AARON     CLEVELAND. 


25 


exhibiting  his  natural  feelings,  and  the  method  he  pursued  to  control 
them. 

"  THE  BURLESQUE  "  is  in  the  style  of  SWIFT,  and  is  not  unworthy 
even  of  him.  It  is  light  and  airy  in  its  versification ;  and  expresses 
rather  the  importance  we  should  attach  primarily  to  our  own  exer 
tions  and  achievements,  than  the  real  regard  and  veneration  which 
the  author  ever  felt  and  exhibited  for  his  progenitors,  in  devout  appre 
ciation  of  the  Scripture — "  the  glory  of  children  are  their  fathers" 

Mr.  CLEVELAND  died  suddenly  while  on  a  visit  to  New  Haven, 
September  21st,  1815,  and  lies  buried  in  the  cemetery  there.  He 
left  behind  him  a  stainless  and  a  beloved  name  ;  and  is  here  associa 
ted  (though  with  many  greater,}  with  none  better,  or  more  valued  in 
private  life.  Not  a  few  who  knew  him,  and  still  survive,  will  be 
gratified  to  read  this  little  sketch  of  his  history  and  character,  and 
will  prize  the  reliques  of  his  graceful  verse,  which  are  here  presented 
them. 


THE   PHILOSOPHER  AND   BOY. 

Anno  JEtatis  19. 
I. 

Botanic  search  had  led  me  far  afield, 
Where  various  plants  the  hills  and  vallies  yield. 
I  strayed  meand'ring  o'er  the  pathless  ground, 
Till  far  from  home  my  weary  self  I  found. 
A  mount  before  me  I  unconscious  trod, 
With  steps  half  taken,  as  I  searched  the  clod. 
The  summit  gained,  I  sat  me  down  to  breathe, 
And  view  the  landscape  spreading  wide  beneath ; 
Far  o'er  a  concave  mead,  and  hill  o'er  hill, 
Far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  new  objects  still ! 
There  graceful  waves  the  ponderous  golden  corn, 
And  orchards  there  the  sloping  hills  adorn  ; 
There  fleecy  tribes  the  craggy  steeps  ascend, 
Or  browsing,  on  the  verdant  cliffs  depend ; 
O'er  scallop'd  hills  a  steeple  lifts  its  head, 
And  tells,  far-off,  a  village  there  is  spread ! 

ii. 

Mine  eyes  were  feasting — but,  as  Science  bid, 
I  left  the  mount,  to  search  the  lowly  mead. 


26  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

With  steps  descending  through  a  sidelong  grove, 
I  reach  the  vale,  where  fancy  loves  to  rove ; 
The  lawn  extending  wide  from  east  to  west, 
The  verdure  waving,  as  by  zephyrs  press'd, 
Give  to  the  eye  in  one  resplendent  show, 
All  that  the  thought  in  visions  can  bestow. 

in. 

Through  thickest  willows,  hidden  from  the  day, 
A  brook  serpentine  gently  steals  away. 
There  tim'rous  birds  have  hung  their  straw-built  cells, 
While  underneath  the  trout  securely  dwells ; 
There  sings  the  robin  when  Aurora's  born, 
And  every  songster  hails  the  rising  morn. 
High  on  some  elm,  the  thrush,  with  various  note 
And  rapturous  strains,  swells  out  his  tuneful  throat ; 
The  bobalincon  skims  the  vale  along, 
Salutes  each  shrub,  and  rattles  o'er  his  song ; 
Hid  'neath  some  hedge,  the  am'rous  quail  elate, 
Whistles  responsive  to  her  distant  mate  ; 
While  mountain-birds  join  chorus  all  around, 
And  hills  to  hills  their  melody  resound. 

iv . 

Such  is  the  concert,  such  each  morning-scene, 
Till  Sol  withdraws,  and  Autumn  fades  the  green. 
But  now  an  elm  invites  me  to  her  shade, 
To  cool  my  bosom  and  to  rest  my  head. 
Beneath  her  base  a  bubbling  spring  arose  ; 
1  drank  the  stream,  and  stretched  me  to  repose ; 
And  fanned  by  zephyrs,  drowsy  soon  I  grew, 
When  half-heard  sobs  my  waked  attention  drew : 
I  raised  me  up : — all  silence  o'er  the  plain, 
A  dream  !  I  said,  and  laid  me  down  again  : 
Another  sob — and  broken  accents  heard, 
Upright  I  stood — a  pensive  lad  appear'd. 
From  whence — what  grieves  thee,  then,  my  lad,  I  cried  ; 
If  thou  art  lost,  I'll  be  thy  faithful  guide  ; 
For  well  I  know  the  grounds,  the  trees,  the  brook, 
And  yonder  hills,  as  far  as  thou  canst  look. 
Cheer  up,  my  boy,  and  stay  those  falling  tears, 
I'll  soon  divest  thee  of  these  needless  fears  ; 


REV.     AARON     CLEVELAND.  27 

Name  but  thy  father,  and  I'll  point  his  dome, 
And  lead  thee  safely  to  thy  wished-for  home. 

v . 

With  sobs  obtruding,  scarce  the  lad  could  say 
I  am  not  lost,  kind  sir,  I  know  the  way ; 
But  pity — pity  !     Here  his  grief  renewed, 
And  pearly  drops  his  ruddy  cheeks  bedewed. 

vi . 

Come,  hush  my  boy,  and  tell  me  all  thy  grief, 
And  let  me  give  thy  sorrows  quick  relief ; 
Hath  some  dire  serpent  bit  thee  ?     Tell  me  where, 
I'll  ply  my  balsam,  and  the  wound  repair  ; 
Stung  by  a  bee  ?     I'll  soon  extract  the  sting, 
Ease  all  thy  smart,  and  thou  again  shalt  sing ; 
Here,  with  my  kerchief  wipe  thy  pretty  face, 
And  tell  me  all  the  troubles  of  thy  case. 

VII. 

I  have  no  wound,  the  bashful  boy  replied, 

Save  such  as  grief  can  give,  and  shame  would  hide. 

Here  lies  the  bird  my  wanton  hands  have  slain ; 

Oh !  could  thy  balsam  give  it  life  again, 

With  grateful  heart  I'd  own  thy  gen'rous  aid, 

As  would  the  mother  whom  I've  disobey'd ! 

For  she,  kind  woman,  taught  my  soul  to  feel 

Another's  woe,  another's  wound  to  heal, 

And  by  example,  led  my  happy  mind 

To  hate  the  cruel,  and  to  love  the  kind. 

Hear  me,  kind  sir,  in  patience  hear  the  whole, 

Nor  smile  at  this  keen  anguish  of  my  soul ; 

Hither  I  ran  in  chase  of  straying  sheep, 

For  know,  my  father  doth  an  hundred  keep ; 

In  playful  mood,  with  whistle  and  with  song, 

I  danced  and  leaped  and  skipped  my  way  along ; 

My  guiltless  life  had  never  known  a  stain, 

Till  this  poor  bird  my  wanton  hand  had  slain ! 

From  yonder  tree  it  wing'd  its  airy  way, 

And  perched  upon  the  willow's  topmost  spray ; 

Thoughtless  I  took,  and  aimless  cast  the  stone, 

Nor  knew  the  deed,  alas !  till  it  was  done  ; 


Oft  had  I  thrown  before,  in  playful  mood, 

But  ne'er  till  now  I  shed  the  guiltless  blood. 

I  ran  and  snatched  the  victim  from  the  ground, 

Trembling  and  gasping,  dying  of  its  wound  : 

My  heart  relented,  and  I  trembled  too, 

When  lo  !  a  nest  of  young  appear'd  in  view. 

Five  little  bills  were  oped  in  vain  for  food, 

And,  fixed  in  grief,  I  watched  them  as  I  stood ; 

Sweet  innocents,  I  said,  what  have  I  done — 

What  can  I  do — or  how  the  deed  atone ! 

Not  yet  'tis  dead — it  gasps,  it  must  not  die  ; 

Hear  me,  kind  HEAVEN, that  hear'st  the  ravens  cry  ! 

With  anxious  heart  to  re-inspire  its  breath, 

And  bring  it  back  from  trembling  and  from  death, 

Within  my  mouth  I  placed  its  gasping  bill, 

And  gently  blew,  its  life  to  re-instil ; 

But  vain  my  efforts  ;  nothing  could  restore 

The  dying  bird,  and  soon  it  gasp'd  no  more ; 

While  still  with  piteous  eye  I  watched  the  nest, 

Blamed  the  rash  deed,  and  heaved  the  sobbing  breast. 

Poor  orphan  birds,  my  bursting  heart  exclaimed, 

The  fatal  deed  was  not  from  baseness  aimed; 

Yet  have  I  robbed  you  of  the  only  friend 

On  whom  your  little  beings  might  depend. 

How  faithful  was  her  trust  to  feed  by  light, 

Or  brood  you  snugly  from  the  chills  of  nightr 

To  choose  the  food  her  tender  young  might  eat, 

And  far  and  near  to  search  the  dainty  meat. 

I'll  take  her  place,  and  till  the  morrow's  sun, 

Make  part  atonement  for  the  deed  I've  done. 

No  watching  hawk  with  hostile  fangs  by  day, 

Nor  owl  by  night  shall  bear  the  prize  away ; 

With  flies  and  worms  each  day  I'll  see  them  fed, 

And  when  't  is  dark,  my  hat  I'll  o'er  them  spread 

Oh,  do  not  smile — with  me  come  view  the  nest, 

You  will  not  wonder  that  Fm  thus  oppress'd. 

VIII. 

The  breasts  in  which  no  tenderness  we  find, 
Can  own  no  virtue  of  the  noble  mind ; 


I  love,  said  I,  dear  boy,  the  feeling  heart, 
Where  sense  with  sentiment  may  share  its  part ; 
But  when  the  feelings  thus  untempered  flow, 
We  wrong  ourselves,  and  wrong  our  neighbor  too ; 
Let  moderation,  then,  thy  grief  direct, 
And  first  the  rule  of  happiness  respect. 
To  man  subordinate  we  rank  the  brute, 
Yet  kindly  treat  them,  as  their  natures  suit ; 
And  true  compassion  for  their  servile  race, 
In  man,  the  master,  should  demand  its  place. 
Yet  guiltless  all,  we  take  their  lives  away, 
When  need  or  chance  has  marked  them  for  a  prey 
Thy  sportive  hand  hath  slain  without  design ; 
Let  pity  move — but  guilt  may  not  be  thine. 
Suffice  the  grief — enough  the  tears  you've  shed, 
To  make  amends,  and  weep  the  hapless  dead : 
And  now  to  give  your  burdened  mind  relief, 
And  in  a  word  to  cancel  all  your  grief, 
Know  that  her  mate,  with  equal  care  and  skill 
To  feed  and  nurse,  is  hovering  round  us  still. 
With  watchful  eye  and  fluttering  for  the  brood, 
He  waits  our  leave  to  waft  the  needed  food  : 
On  yonder  bough — behold,  he  seems  to  say 
Touch  not  my  young — go  strangers,  haste  away  : 
Recluse  behind  these  willows  let  us  lie, 
And  watch  his  visit  to  his  family. 

ix . 

He's  come  !  he's  come  !  the  boy  in  rapture  said, 
And  from  his  beak  the  crying  ones  are  fed, 
And  now  with  speed  again  he  wings  away ; 
There — see  him  make  the  butterfly  his  prey ! 
W7ith  rapid  flight,  at  once  returned  again, 
Look,  he  divides  the  little  captive  slain ; 
See  each  extended  bill  receive  its  part, 
See  instinct  operate,  surpassing  art ! 
Where  now,  my  boy,  your  feelings  fine,  I  said  ; 
For  the  poor  butterfly  no  tears  are  shed ! 
Are  birds  alone  the  objects  of  your  care, 
While  the  poor  insect  claims  no  humble  share  ? 


POETS      OF     CONNECTICUT. 

If  rich  attire  delights  thy  tender  breast, 

View  those  poor  wings  just  quivering  o'er  the  nest ; 

The  crimson  and  the  yellow  dyes  behold, 

The  rich  embroidery,  and  the  stars  of  gold ; 

Not  the  gay  colors  of  the  Spring  outvie 

The  gaudy  plumage  of  the  butterfly. 

And  then,  if  innocence  your  tears  can  claim, 

What  bird  or  beast  more  harmless   can  you  name  ? 

No  insect  trembles  when  it  wafts  in  sight ; 

No  field  is  injured  by  its  feeble  flight ; 

And  if  the  weak  your  pity  should  inspire, 

One  puff  of  air  will  lodge  it  in  the  mire. 

To  be  consistent,  please  indulge  your  grief 

Where'er  you  see  distress  without  relief ; 

And  give,  at  need,  your  sympathetic  sigh, 

Alike  for  bullock  and  for  butterfly. 

Taste  not  of  flesh — because"  it  once  had  life, 

Nor  covet  gun,  nor  pay  the  butcher-knife ; 

Whene'er  you  walk,  with  cautious  step  beware,  > 

Lest  some  poor  earth-worm  should  be  writhing  there. 

x. 

Life  sensitive  must  subject  be  to  pain, 
But  must  we  sigh  at  every  insect  slain  ? 
Must  man  be  tortured,  life  be  misery, 
When  now  an  ox  is  killed,  or  now  a  fly  ? 
Sensation  ceasing  when  the  blow  is  past, 
Must  morbid  fancy  make  it  longer  last  1 
When  one  sure  stroke  has  ended  all  their  pain, 
Must  thy  fond  tortures  evermore  remain  ? 
Nay,  while  they  live,  bestow  whate'er  you  can 
Of  ease  and  comfort,  that  afflicts  not  man  ; 
And  when  by  turns  they  joy  and  anguish  feel, 
This  foster  kindly,  and  the  other  heal ; 
Since  chartered  free,  with  all  the  happiness 
That  Nature  gives — he  robs  them  who  gives  less ; 
And  though  they  feast  and  fast,  or  live  or  die, 
As  best  may  serve  man's  nobler  family, 
None  may  disturb  the  lives  e'en  brutes  enjoy, 
Till  greater  good  commands  him  to  destroy. 


REV.     AARON     CLEVELAND. 


31 


X  I  . 

True — some  to  bless  us,  some  to  scourge  are  giv'n ; 

Scourgings  are  blessings,  when  they're  sent  of  Heaven 

We  some  for  food,  and  some  for  safety  kill ; 

The  good  of  man  our  only  object  still ! 

And  when  we  spare,  alike  as  when  we  slay, 

The  less  to  greater  good  must  still  give  way. 

'T  is  so,  united  for  the  general  weal, 

We  feel  aright — for  moral  truths  we  feel ; 

The  good  of  man  is  made  our  end  below, 

In  all  withheld,  in  all  that  we  bestow ; 

And  self-involved  in  universal  good, 

True  happiness  is  rightly  understood, 

The  whole  of  being  meeting  in  our  aim, 

GOD  first  of  all — all  others  as  they  claim  ! 

XII. 

Aid  then  the  weak — support  the  wounded  heart, 
And  every  blessing  in  thy  power  impart  : 
Render  to  GOD  the  things  He  calls  His  own, 
And  let  thy  bounty  unto  all  be  shown  ; 
Yea,  beast  and  bird  and  insect,  let  them  find 
Thy  heart  is  mercy,  thy  dominion  kind ! 
Life's  ills  are  few — except  the  needless  pain 
Of  sinful  heart,  or  folly  of  the  brain  ; 
The  most  of  woe  the  man  of  virtue  feels, 
Is  in  imagined,  not  in  real  ills  ; 
For  man  reflects — and  in  that  power  alone 
Has  pain  and  pleasure  to  the  brute  unknown ; 
And  mental  griefs  will  haunt  him,  small  or  great, 
When  sports  conception,  or  when  sins  create  ; 
These  griefs  are  borrowed  from  to-morrow's  store, 
And  felt  too  soon — when  due  are  felt  no  more. 
For  Hope,  oft  false,  gives  pleasures  ne'er  to  be, 
But  Fear,  more  false,  a  fruitless  misery. 

XIII. 

And  mind,  my  boy !  at  others'  seeming  woe, 
You  oft  may  grieve  for  what  they  never  know  : 
Then  let  Truth's  balance  weigh,  as  surest  test, 
All  that  presumes  to  make  us  poor  or  blest ;     • 


For  real  evil  follows  only  vice. 

While  wisdom  makes  man's  life  a  paradise ! 

I  see  !  I  see  !   the  listening  boy  replied, 

And  thank  my  friend,  my  teacher  and  my  guide ; 

To  wisdom  thus,  and   heaven  its  prize  and  goal, 

Thy  reasoned  truths  shall  wake  my  willing  soul. 


THE    FAMILY    BLOOD. 

A    BURLESQUE. 

"  Genus  et  proavos,  et  quod  non  fecimus  ipsi 
Vix  ea  nostra  voco." 

Four  kinds  of  blood  flow  in  my  veins, 
And  govern,  each  in  turn,  my  brains. 
From  CLEVELAND,  PORTER,  SEWELL,  WATERS, 
I  had  my  parentage  in  quarters  ; 
My  fathers'  fathers'  names  I  know, 
And  further  back  no  doubt  might  go. 
Compound  on  compound  from  the  flood, 
Makes  up  my  old  ancestral  blood ; 
But  what  my  sires  of  old  time  were, 
I  neither  wish  to  know,  nor  care. 
Some  might  be  wise — and  others  fools  ; 
Some  might  be  tyrants — others  tools  ; 
Some  might  have  wealth,  and  others  lack ; 
Some  fair  perchance — some  almost  black  ; 
No  matter  what  in  days  of  yore, 
Since  now  they're  known  and  seen  no  more. 

The  name  of  CLEVELAND  I  must  wear, 
Which  any  foundling  too  might  bear : 
PORTER,  they  say,  from  Scotland  came, 
A  bonny  Laird  of  ancient  fame  : 
SEWELL — of  English  derivation, 
Perhaps  was  outlawed  from  the  nation  ; 
And  WATERS — Irish  as  I  ween, 
Straight — round-about  from — Aberdeen  ! 

Such  is  my  heterogeneous  blood, 
A  motley  mixture,  bad  and  good  : 


REV.  AARON  CLEVELAND. 

--^-^N_^^>~N-rX-^N^-V^ >-X^~ -*-^^r^_S-**S-^S-^~^^_s-*^s~ 

Each  blood  aspires  to  rule  alone, 
And  each  in  turn  ascends  the  throne, 
Of  its  poor  realm  to  wear  the  crown, 
And  reign  till  next  one  tears  him  down. 
Each  change  must  twist  about  my  brains, 
And  move  my  tongue  in  different  strains ; 
My  mental  powers  are  captive  led, 
As  whim  or  wisdom  rules  the  head ; 
My  character  no  one  can  know, 
For  none  I  have  while  things  are  so  ; 
I'm  something — nothing,  wise,  or  fool, 
As  suits  the  blood  that  haps  to  rule. 

When  CLEVELAND  reigns  I'm  thought  a  wit 
In  giving  words  the  funny  hit ; 
And  social  glee  and  humorous  song 
Delight  the  fools  that  round  me  throng  : 
Till  PORTER  next  puts  on  the  crown, 
And  hauls  the  CLEVELAND  banner  down. 

Now  all  is  calm,  discreet,,  and  wise, 
Whate'er  I  do,  whate'er  devise  ; 
What  common  sense  and  wisdom  teach, 
Directs  my  actions,  forms  my  speech  ; 
The  wise  and  good  around  me  stay, 
And  laughing  dunces  hie  away. 

But  soon,  alas,  this  happy  vein 
May  for  some  other  change  again  ! 
SEWELL  perchance  shall  next  bear  ruler 
I'm  now  a  philosophic  fool ! 
With  JEFFERSON  I  correspond, 
And  sail  with  him,  the  stars  beyond : 
Each  nerve  and  fibre  of  my  brain, 
To  sense  profound  I  nicely  strain, 
And  thus  uprise  beyond  the  ken 
Of  common  sense  and  common  men. 

Thus  great  am  I,  till  SEWELL'S  crown 
About  my  ears  comes  tumbling  down. 
Wise  fools  may  soar  themselves  above, 
And  dream  in  rapturous  spheres  they  move  ; 


33 


But  airy  castles  must  recoil, 
And  such  wild  imagery  spoil. 

But  who  comes  now  ?     Alas  !  'tis  WATERS, 
Rushing  and  blustering  to  head  quarters  : 
He  knows  nor  manners,  nor  decorum, 
But  elbows  headlong  to  the  forum ; 
Uncouth  and  odd,  abrupt  and  bold, 
Unteachable  and  uncontroll'd, 
Devoid  of  wisdom,  sense,  or  wit, 
Not  one  thing  right  he  ever  hit, 
Unless,  by  accident,  not  skill, 
He  blundered  right  against  his  will. 

And  such  am  I !  no  transmigration 
Can  sink  me  to  a  lower  station : 
Come,  PORTER,  come  depose  this  clown, 
And,  once  for  all,  possess  the  crown. 
If  aught,  in  SEWELL'S  blood,  you  find 
Will  make  your  own  still  more  refined ; 
If  found  in  CLEVELAND'S  blood,  a  trait 
To  aid  you  in  affairs  of  state  ; 
Select  such  parts — and  spurn  the  rest, 
No  more  to  rule  in  brain  or  breast. 
Of  WATERS'  blood,  expel  the  whole, 
Let  not  one  drop  pollute  my  soul  : 
Then  rule  my  head — and  keep  my  heart 
From  folly,  weakness,  wit  apart : 
With  all  such  gifts  I  glad  dispense, 
But  only  leave  me — COMMON  SENSE. 


JOHN     TRUMBULL. 


35 


JOHN    TRUMBULL,    LL.   D. 

[Born  1750.    Died  1831.] 

JOHN  TRUMBULL,  LL.  D.,  was  a  native  of  Westbury,  at  that  time 
a  parish  of  the  town  of  Waterbury,  in  New  Haven  county,  and  since 
incorporated  as  Watertown,  in  connection  with  the  county  of  Litch- 
field.  He  was  born  on  the  24th  day  of  April,  1750.  His  father  was 
a  Congregational  clergyman,  of  a  family  distinguished  in  the  literary 
and  political  annals  of  Connecticut,  and  his  mother  a  lady  of  superior 
attainments.  Thus  every  facility  for  instruction  was  afforded  their 
son,  who,  while  a  mere  child,  evinced  unusual  talents.  A  taste  for 
poetry  early  characterized  him.  He  committed  to  memory  the 
greater  part  of  Dr.  WATTS'  Lyric  Poems,  and  those  comprised  in 
the  Spectator,  and  began  composing  verses  himself,  an  exercise  in 
which  he  was  encouraged  by  his  parents.  When  only  five  years  of 
age,  his  father  began  to  instruct  him  in  the  principles  of  the  Greek 
and  Latin  languages.  Such  was  his  proficiency,  that  at  the  Com 
mencement  of  Yale  College,  in  September  1757,  when  only  seven 
years  of  age,  he  sustained  an  examination,  and  was  admitted  as  a 
member  of  that  institution.  On  account,  however,  of  his  extreme 
youth  and  subsequent  ill  health,  he  was  not  sent  to  reside  at  college 
until  the  year  1763.  He  devoted  these  intervening  years  to  a  dili 
gent  study  of  the  Greek  and  Latin  classics,  as  also  of  the  best  Eng 
lish  authors  which  he  could  procure  in  his  native  village,  endeavoring 
by  imitations  of  these  latter  writers  to  cultivate  a  correct  style  of 
composition,  both  in  prose  and  verse. 

On  commencing  his  collegiate  course,  TRUMBULL  found  that  the 
greater  portion  of  the  time  at  college  was  engrossed  by  the  study 
of  the  ancient  classics.  As  in  these  he  was  already  a  proficient, 
he  was  enabled  to  devote  much  of  his  time  for  the  first  three  years 
to  mathematical  studies,  then  newly  introduced,  and  in  his  senior 
year  he  resumed  his  attention  to  English  literature.  He  was  gradu 
ated  in  1767,  and  remained  three  years  as  a  resident  at  college,  de 
voting  himself  principally  to  the  study  of  polite  letters. 

At  this  period  began  his  acquaintance  with  Dr.  DWIGHT,  afterward 
president  of  the  college.  DWIGHT  was  at  that  time  a  member  of  the 
Junior  class,  and  had  attracted  attention  by  a  finished  translation  of 
two  of  the  finest  Odes  of  HORACE.  An  ardent  friendship  was  con 
tracted  between  the  two,  which  ripened  into  intimacy,  and  continued 


r 

36  POETS    OF    CONNECTICUT. 

until  the  close  of  their  lives.  The  learned  languages,  mathematics, 
logic,  and  scholastic  theology,  were  at  this  time  deemed  alone  worthy 
the  attention  of  a  scholar,  and  were  dignified  with  the  term  of  solid 
learning,  while  the  study  of  belles  lettres  was  decried  as  useless. 
To  combat  this  sentiment  the  satirical  talents  of  TRUMBULL  were 
first  enlisted ;  and  after  the  graduation  of  DWIGHT  the  two  united 
their  efforts.  They  were  exposed  to  a  torrent  of  ridicule,  but  the 
close  of  the  contest  beheld  them  victors.  In  1769  they  commenced 
the  publication  of  a  series  of  essays  after  the  manner  of  the  Specta 
tor,  in  a  Boston  gazette,  which  were  continued  for  some  months ; 
and  a  similar  course  of  essays  was  afterward  commenced  in  a 
newspaper  at  New  Haven,  which  was  continued  to  more  than  forty 
numbers.  In  the  autumn  of  1771,  TRUMBULL  and  DWIGHT  were 
elected  tutors  of  the  college,  and  exerted  all  their  energies  to  intro 
duce  an  improved  system  of  study  and  discipline  in  the  institution. 

In  1772, TRUMBULL  published  the  first  part  of  "The  Progress  of 
Dulness,"  designed  to  expose  to  ridicule  the  absurd  methods  of 
education  which  then  prevailed ;  and  in  the  course  of  the  following 
year  he  added  the  second  and  third  parts.  It  achieved  its  object,  and 
closed  the  warfare  in  which  our  author  and  his  friend  had  been  so 
long  and  ardently  engaged.  "  The  Progress  of  Dulness  "  is  a  satiri 
cal  poem,  in  Hudibrastic  verse,  and,  though  less  popular  than 
McFingal,  is  the  most  finished  of  any  of  our  author's  productions. 
In  the  first  part,  or  satire,  TOM  BRAINLESS,  a  dunce  from  the  coun 
try,  is  sent  to  college,  where,  after  a  four  years'  residence,  a  degree 
is  obtained ;  and  by  virtue  of  a  slight  smattering  of  Latin  and  Greek, 
a  new  booby  is  added  to  the  list  of  candidates  for  the  learned  pro 
fessions.  After  attempting  for  a  twelvemonth  to  teach  what  he 
himself  never  knew,  he  commences  the  study  of  theology  with  a 
country  minister,  who  had  trod  the  same  path  of  dulness  before  ;  and 
in  due  time  is  fully  licensed  as  a  teacher  of  religious  truth.  In  the 
second  part  a  blow  is  also  aimed  at  the  coxcombry  of  fashionable  life. 
DICK  HAIRBRAIN,  a  conceited  and  idle  fop,  succeeds  to  full  collegiate 
honors,  and  devotes  his  life  to  a  round  of  fashionable  follies  and  vices. 
The  third  part  describes  the  life  and  fortunes  of  Miss  HARRIET 
SIMPER,  who  in  ignorance  and  folly  is  but  a  feminine  counterpart  of 
the  hero  of  the  preceding  satire.  After  rejecting  a  throng  of  admir 
ing  swains,  she  is  herself  overcome  by  the  charms  of  the  accom 
plished  HAIRBRAIN.  But  failing  in  her  efforts,  she  consoles  herself 
with  the  more  sober  love  of  the  profound  and  estimable  BRAINLESS. 
Their  marriage  concludes  the  poem. 

While  he  exercised  his  office  of  tutor  at  college,  TRUMBULL  devoted 
as  much  time  as  his  other  avocations  would  permit  to  the  study  of 
law,  which  he  had  selected  as  his  profession.  He  resigned  his  tutor 
ship,  and  in  November,  1773,  was  admitted  to  the  bar  of  Connecticut. 


JOHNTRUMBULL.  37 

He  did  not,  however,  seek  employment,  but  removed  immediately  to 
Boston,  and  entered  as  a  student  the  office  of  JOHN  ADAMS,  afterward 
President  of  the  United  States.  Our  author  was  now  in  the  centre 
of  American  politics.  The  contest  between  this  country  and  Great 
Britain  was  rapidly  approaching  a  crisis,  and  he  embarked  with  great 
ardor  in  the  cause  of  liberty.  While  he  prosecuted  the  study  of  law 
with  assiduity,  he  devoted  much  of  his  leisure  to  the  writing  of 
political  essays,  which  were  published  anonymously,  as  also  to  a 
cultivation  of  his  poetical  talents.  As  every  thing  seemed  rapidly 
verging  toward  hostility  in  Massachusetts,  and  the  session  of  the 
courts  was  suspended,  after  publishing  anonymously  his  "  Elegy  on 
the  Times,"  TRUMBULL  returned  to  New  Haven  in  November,  1774, 
and  commenced  the  practice  of  his  profession  under  flattering  cir 
cumstances. 

During  the  following  year,  1775,  the  first  part  of  "  McFingal," 
comprising  the  two  first  cantos,  was  published  at  Philadelphia.  It 
was  written  at  the  solicitation  of  some  of  the  author's  friends  in 
Congress,  and  was  designed  to  influence  the  popular  mind  to  hatred 
of  oppression  and  oppressors,  and  to  the  love  of  the  new  and  rapidly 
spreading  cause  of  independence.  In  November,  1776,  our  author 
married  Miss  SARAH  HUBBARD,  daughter  of  Colonel  LEVERETT 
HUBBARD,  of  New  Haven,  and  in  May,  1777,  from  the  decline  of 
business — the  war  forming  the  great  engrossing  subject  of  interest — 
he  returned  to  his  native  village,  where»he  resided  the  four  succeed 
ing  years.  In  June,  1781,  he  removed  with  mVfamily  to  Hartford, 
and  there,  at  the  solicitation  of  his  friends,  completed  his  "  McFin 
gal."  The  whole  was  finished  and  the  first  edition  published  during 
the  year  1782.  A  subscription  was  made  by  the  numerous  friends 
of  the  author  for  this  edition.  But  subsequently — the  law  affording 
no  protection  to  copyright — the  work  became  the  prey  of  every 
bookseller  and  printer  who  chose  to  assume  its  publication.  More 
than  thirty  successive  editions  followed :  and  already  had  the  first 
part,  printed  at  Philadelphia,  been  reprinted  in  London,  where  it 
passed  through  several  editions — and  was  ascribed  to  a  variety  of 
authors. 

"  McFingal"  is  a  Hudibrastic  poem  in  four  cantos.  Its  hero  is  a 
justice  of  the  peace,  residing  in  a  town  near  Boston. 

"  His  fathers  flourish'd  in  the  Highlands 
Of  Scotia's  fog-benighted  islands  ; 
Whence  gain'd  our  'Squire  two  gifts  by  right, 
Rebellion  and  the  Second-sight." 

The  first  two  cantos  are  chiefly  occupied  with  a  discussion,  at  a 
"  Town  Meeting,"  between  one  HONORIUS  and  the  hero,  the  former 
a  stanch  whig,  and  the  latter  a  most  uncompromising  loyalist.  The 
arguments  of  the  "  'Squire  "  are  turned  by  the  satire  of  the  author 


against  himself — his  speeches  forming  a  severe  condemnation  of  the 
English  and  their  tory  friends,  and  the  best  possible  apology  for 
resistance.  The  meeting  ends  with  a  riot.  At  the  commencement 
of  the  third  canto  McFiNGAL  is  seized  by  the  mob,  tried  at  the  foot  of 
the  "  Liberty  Pole,"  convicted  of  toryism,  and  condemned  to  the  sum 
mary  punishment  of  tar  and  feathers.  In  the  fourth  canto,  "  The  Vis 
ion,"  McFiNGAL  assembles  his  tory  friends  in  a  cellar,  and  harangues 
them  upon  their  disastrous  prospects.  By  virtue  of  his  second  sight, 
he  foretells  the  calamities  which  should  befal  the  British  arms,  and 
the  sure  success  of  the  cause  of  freedom.  His  speech  is  suddenly 
interrupted  by  an  invasion  of  his  old  enemies — the  company  is  dis 
persed — the  hero  escapes  to  Boston,  and  the  poem  closes.  "  So 
sublime  a  denouement,  as  the  French  critics  term  it,"  the  author 
facetiously  remarks  in  a  note,  "  never  appeared  before  in  epic  poetry, 
except  that  of  the  hero  turning  Papist,  in  the  Henriade  of  Voltaire." 
"  McFingal "  is  a  merciless  satire,  directed  by  a  powerful  hand,  and 
with  an  unerring  aim.  The  reader  recognizes  continually  the  wit 
in  the  hero  ;  and  so  keen  is  the  author's  perception  of  the  ridiculous, 
that  whatever  the  object  of  his  sarcasm,  it  never  escapes  a  most 
ludicrous  representation.  The  free  and  unwarranted  use  of  sacred 
Scripture,  throughout  the  entire  work,  is  decidedly  objectionable,  as 
affording  encouragement  to  an  irreverent  practice  then  and  now  quite 
too  prevalent.  Yet  perhaps  some  extenuation  may  be  found  in  the 
manners  of  the  period.  If  abjection  be  made  to  the  coarse  style  and 
subject  of  the  work,  and  to  its  barrenness  of  incident,  let  it  be  remem 
bered  that  it  was  written  for  the  times,  and  designed  rather  as  a 
political  article  than  a  finished  poem.  In  this  light  it  must  be  prin 
cipally  viewed ;  and  when  so  viewed,  is  deserving  of  the  highest 
praise.  It  was  one  of  the  most  useful  and  acceptable  offerings  laid 
upon  the  altar  of  liberty. 

(  Soon  after  the  removal  of  TRUMBULL  to  Hartford,  a  literary  club 
<•  was  formed,  composed  of  Colonel  HUMPHREYS,  BARLOW,  Dr.  LEMUEL 
<  HOPKINS,  and  our  author.  They  were  a  band  of  kindred  spirits, 
assembling  weekly  for  the  discussion  of  proposed  questions  of  inter 
est,  and  enlisting  their  talents  in  combined  efforts  for  the  public  good. 
After  the  peace  in  1783,  and  before  the  adoption  of  the  federal  con 
stitution,  the  country  was  in  a  state  well  nigh  bordering  upon  anarchy. 
Each  state — an  independent  sovereignty — pursued  its  separate  plans 
of  policy.  Great  dissatisfaction  was  entertained  by  the  people  toward 
the  officers  of  the  revolutionary  army,  on  account  of  their  combina 
tion  in  the  Society  of  the  Cincinnatti,  and  also  for  the  extra  pay 
granted  them  by  Congress  for  five  years,  in  lieu  of  half  pay  for  life. 
The  national  debt  was  swelled  to  a  large  amount  by  the  unpaid  arrears 
of  the  army.  The  country  was  greatly  impoverished,  and  in  Con 
necticut  mobs  were  raised  to  prevent  the  officers  from  receiving  their 


JOHN     TRUMBULL.  39 

certificates  for  the  five  years'  pay.  A  self-constituted  convention 
assembled  to  second  the  views  of  the  populace,  and  many  of  the 
citizens  of  our  state  were  prepared  to  join  in  general  opposition  to 
the  government,  and  to  involve  the  country  in  the  horrors  of  civil 
war.  Had  not  the  insurrection  of  Shays  in  Massachusetts  been 
speedily  quelled,  it  is  impossible  to  conjecture  the  disastrous  conse 
quences  which  might  have  ensued.  In  such  a  state  of  things,  all 
friends  of  good  order  and  rightful  authority  endeavored  by  every 
means  in  their  power  to  counteract  the  popular  spirit.  The  press 
lent  its  powerful  aid,  not  ineffectually  ;  and  chief  among  its  directors 
was  our  junto  of  Hartford  wits.  They  published  numerous  essays, 
but  chiefly  a  series  of  papers  entitled  "  The  Anarchiad,"  after  the 
manner  of  "  The  Rolliad,"  an  English  work  ascribed  to  Fox,  SHERI 
DAN,  and  their  associates.  Public  curiosity  had  been  awakened  by 
the  discovery  of  ancient  Indian  fortifications,  with  their  singular 
relics  :  the  story  of  the  early  emigration  of  a  body  of  Britons  and 
Welch  to  this  country,  and  of  an  existing  tribe  of  their  descendants 
in  the  interior  of  the  continent,  was  revived  and  circulated  :  and  our 
writers  assumed  that,  in  digging  among  the  ruins  of  one  of  these 
fortifications,  an  ancient  heroic  poem  in  the  English  language  had 
been  discovered.  This  poem  was  "  The  Anarchiad,"  and  the  essays 
which  our  authors  published  were  supposed  extracts  from  it.  They 
first  appeared  in  the  Hartford  and  New  Haven  gazettes,  and  were 
extensively  circulated  through  the  various  periodicals  of  the  day. 
The  essays  were  mostly  written  in  concert,  and  have  never  been 
collected.  They  were  supposed  to  have  exerted  great  influence  upon 
the  public  taste,  and  by  the  fearlessness  of  their  tone  of  satire  to 
have  checked  the  leaders  of  disorganization  and  infidel  philosophy. 

In  1789,  TRUMBULL  was  appointed  Attorney  to  the  State  for  the 
county  of  Hartford,  and  in  1792  was  the  representative  of  the  town 
of  Hartford  in  the  State  Legislature,  in  the  deliberations  of  which 
he  took  an  active  and  influential  part.  Tn  1795,  he  was  com 
pelled  by  ill  health  to  resign  his  office  of  State's  Attorney.  He  was 
naturally  of  feeble  physical  constitution,  and  the  pressure  of  his 
public  and  professional  employments  had  reduced  him  to  so  low  a 
stage  of  nervous  debility,  that  for  years  he  declined  all  business. 
At  length,  regaining  his  accustomed  health,  he  resumed  his  profes 
sional  duties.  In  May,  1800,  he  was  again  elected  a  member  of 
the  Legislature,  and  in  1801  was  appointed  a  Judge  of  the  Superior 
Court.  Henceforward  he  declined  any  interference  in  the  politics 
of  the  State,  and  devoted  himself  exclusively  to  the  duties  of  his 
office.  In  1808  he  received  the  additional  appointment  of  a  Judge  of 
the  Supreme  Court  of  Errors,  which  he  retained  until  the  year  1819, 
when  he  retired  from  public  life.  In  1820  a  collection  of  his  poems 
was  made,  to  which  he  prefixed  a  memoir.  They  were  published  at 


40  POETS    OF    CONNECTICUT. 

Hartford,  in  two  octavo  volumes.  In  1825  Judge  TRUMBULL  removed 
to  Detroit,  to  the  residence  of  his  daughter,  the  wife  of  the  Honora 
ble  WILLIAM  WOODBRIDGE,  where  he  remained  until  the  time  of  his 
death,  which  occurred  in  May,  1831,  in  the  eighty-first  year  of 
his  age. 

Beside  the  poems  already  mentioned,  which  were  his  chief  pro 
ductions,  there  are  a  number  of  shorter  ones  contained  in  the  volumes 
of  our  author,  mostly  upon  serious  subjects,  which  deserve  notice. 
They  prove  that  while  satire  was  his  peculiar  forte,  he  was  not  une 
qual  to  other  styles  of  composition.  Of  these  the  "  Ode  to  Sleep," 
and  "  The  Prophecy  of  Balaam,"  may  be  instanced  as  possessing 
superior  merit. 

Judge  TRUMBULL  maintained  through  life  an  honorable  and  upright 
character.  The  powers  of  satire,  which  formed  a  striking  trait  of  his 
character,  while  they  gave  a  pointedness  and  piquancy  to  his  common 
conversation,  he  endeavored  to  restrain  within  the  bounds  of  cour- 
teousness  and  kindness.  As  a  scholar,  a  wit,  and  gentleman,  he 
was  greatly  admired  :  and  he  left  a  name  which  must  always  sustain 
a  conspicuous  place  in  the  early  history  of  American  letters. 


THE    PROPHECY   OF   BALAAM. 

Numbers,  Chapters  23d  and  24th. 


On  lofty  Peor's  brow, 
That  rears  its  forehead  to  the  sky, 
And  sees  the  airy  vapors  fly, 
And  clouds  in  bright  expansion  sail  below, 
Sublime  the  Prophet  stood. 
Beneath  its  pine-clad  side 

The  distant  world  her  varied  landscape  yields  ; 
Winding  vales  and  lengthening  fields, 
Streams  in  sunny  maze  that  flow'd, 
Stretch'd  immense  in  prospect  wide, 
Forests  green  in  summer's  pride. 
Waving  glory  gilds  the  main, 
The  dazzling  sun  ascending  high, 

While  earth's  blue  verge,  at  distance  dimly  seen, 
Spreads  from  the  aching  sight,  and  fades  into  the  sky. 


JOHN     TRUM BULL.  41 

-^-s_x-x. 

II. 

Beneath  his  feet,  along  the  level  plain, 
The  host  of  Israel  stretched  in  deep  array ; 

Their  tents  rose  frequent  on  the  enamelled  green, 
Bright  to  the  wind  the  colored  streamers  play. 

Red  from  the  slaughter  of  their  foes, 
In  awful  steel  th'  embattled  heroes  stood ; 
High  o'er  the  shaded  ark  in  terror  rose 
The  cloud,  the  dark  pavilion  of  their  GOD. 
Before  the  Seer's  unwilling  eyes, 

The  years  unborn  ascend  to  sight ; 
He  saw  their  opening  morn  arise, 
Bright  in  the  sunshine  of  the  fav'ring  skies  ; 

While  from  th'  insufferable  light, 
Fled  the  dire  daemons  of  opposing  night. 

No  more,  elate  with  stygian  aid, 
He  waves  the  wand's  enchanted  power, 

And  baleful  through  the  hallowed  glade, 
His  magic  footsteps  rove  no  more. 

Filled  with  prophetic  fire,  he  lifts  his  hand 
O'er  the  deep  host  in  dim  array ; 
And  awed  by  Heaven's  supreme  command, 
Pours  forth  the  rapture  of  the  living  lay. 

in. 

Fair,  oh  Israel,  are  thy  tents, 
Blest  the  banners  of  thy  fame  ; 
Blest  the  dwellings  of  his  saints, 
Where  their  GOD  displays  his  name. 
Fair  as  these  vales,  that  stretch  their  lawns  so  wide, 

As  gardens  smile  in  flow'ry  meadows  fair, 
As  rising  cedars,  on  the  streamlet's  side, 
Unfold  their  arms  and  court  the  fragrant  air. 
Vain  is  magic's  deadly  force, 
Vain  the  dire  enchanter's  spell, 
Waving  wand  or  charmed  curse, 
Vain  the  pride,  the  rage  of  hell. 
From  Peor's  high,  illumined  brow, 

I  see  th'  Eternal  Power  revealed, 
And  all  the  lengthened  plain  below 
O'ershrouded  by  th'  Almighty  Shield. 


42  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

GOD,  their  guardian  GOD,  descends, 
And  Israel's  favorite  host  Omnipotence  defends. 

IV. 

And  see,  bright  Judah's  Star  ascending 
Fires  the  east  with  crimson  day, 
Awful  o'er  his  foes  impending, 
Pours  wide  the  lightning  of  his  ray, 
And  flames  destruction  on  th'  opposing  world. 
Death's  broad  banners  dark,  unfurFd, 
Wave  o'er  his  blood-encircled  way. 

Sceptred  king  of  Moab,  hear 
Deeds  that  future  times  await, 
Deadly  triumph,  war  severe, 
Israel's  pride  and  Moab's  fate. 
What  echoing  terrors  burst  upon  mine  ear  I 
What  awful  forms  in  flaming  horror  rise ! 
Empurpled  Rage,  pale  Ruin,  heart-struck  Fear, 
In  scenes  of  blood  ascend,  and  skim  before  my  eyes. 

v . 

Dimly  on  the  skirt  of  night, 
O'er  thy  sons  the  cloud  impends ; 

Echoing  storm  with  wild  affright, 
Loud  the  astonished  ether  rends. 
Long  hosts,  emblazed  with  sunbright  shields,  appear, 

And  Death,  in  fierce  career, 

Glides  on  their  light'ning  swords  :  along  thy  shores, 
Armed  with  the  bolts  of  fate, 
What  hostile  navies  wait ! 
Above,  around,  the  shout  of  ruin  roars. 

For  nought  avails,  that,  clad  in  spiry  pride, 
Thy  rising  cities  glittered  on  the  day  ; 

The  vengeful  arms  wave  devastation  wide, 
And  give  thy  pompous  domes  to  smouldering  flames  a  prey. 

vi . 

Edom  bows  her  lofty  head, 
Seir  submits  her  vanquished  lands, 

Amalek,  of  hosts  the  dread, 
Sinks  beneath  their  wasting  hands. 


See,  whelmed  in  smoky  heaps,  the  ruined  walls 
Rise  o'er  thy  children's  hapless  grave ! 

Low  thy  blasted  glory  falls  ; 
Vain  the  pride  that  could  not  save ! 

Israel's  swords  arrest  the  prey, 
Back  to  swift  fate  thy  trembling  standards  turn ; 

Black  desolation  rolls  along  their  way, 
War  sweeps  in  front,  and  flames  behind  them  burn  ; 

And  Death  and  dire  Dismay 
Unfold  their  universal  grave,  and  ope  the  mighty  urn. 


THE    SCHOOLMASTER.* 

Next  see  our  youth  at  school  appear, 
Procured  for  forty  pounds  a  year  ; 
His  ragged  regiment  round  assemble, 
Taught,  not  to  read,  but  fear  and  tremble. 
Before  him,  rods  prepare  his  way, 
Those  dreaded  antidotes  to  play. 
Then  throned  aloft  in  elbow  chair, 
With  solemn  face  and  awful  air, 
He  tries,  with  ease  and  unconcern, 
To  teach  what  ne'er  himself  could  learn  ; 
Gives  law  and  punishment  alone, 
Judge,  jury,  bailiff,  all  in  one  ; 
Holds  all  good  learning  must  depend 
Upon  his  rod's  extremest  end, 
Whose  great  electric  virtue's  such, 
Each  genius  brightens  at  the  touch ; 
With  threats  and  blows,  incitements  pressing, 
Drives  on  his  lads  to  learn  each  lesson ; 
Thinks  flogging  cures  all  moral  ills, 
And  breaks  their  heads  to  break  their  wills. 

The  year  is  done  ;  he  takes  his  leave  ; 
The  children  smile  ;  the  parents  grieve  ; 
And  seek  again,  their  school  to  keep, 
One  just  as  good  and  just  as  cheap. 

*  From  Progress  of  Dulness,  Part  I. 


44  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

-^-^-N^-X^-^->w^-N^-V^_/-^-^-\_^_^^ 

THE   FOP'S   DECLINE.* 
But  ah  !  how  short  the  fairest  name 
Stands  on  the  slippery  steep  of  fame  ! 
The  noblest  heights  we  're  soonest  giddy  on  ; 
The  sun  ne'er  stays  in  his  meridian ; 
The  brightest  stars  must  quickly  set ; 
And  DICK  has  deeply  run  in  debt. 
Not  all  his  oaths  can  duns  dismay, 
Or  deadly  bailiffs  fright  away  ; 
Not  all  his  compliments  can  bail, 
Or  minuets  dance  him  from  the  jail. 
Law  not  the  least  respect  can  give 
To  the  laced  coat,  or  ruffled  sleeve  ; 
His  splendid  ornaments  must  fall, 
And  all  is  lost,  for  these  were  all. 

What  then  remains  ?  in  health's  decline, 
By  lewdness,  luxury  and  wine, 
Worn  by  disease,  with  purse  too  shallow, 
To  lead  in  fashions,  or  to  follow, 
The  meteor's  gaudy  light  is  gone ; 
Lone  age  with  hasty  step  comes  on. 
How  pale  the  palsied  fop  appears. 
Low  shivering  in  the  vale  of  years  ; 
The  ghost  of  all  his  former  days, 
When  folly  lent  the  ear  of  praise 
And  beaux  with  pleased  attention  hung 
On  accents  of  his  chatt'ring  tongue. 
Now  all  those  days  of  pleasure  o'er, 
That  chatt'ring  tongue  must  prate  no  more. 
From  every  place,  that  blessed  his  hopes, 
He  's  elbowed  out  by  younger  fops. 
Each  pleasing  thought  unknown,  that  cheers 
The  sadness  of  declining  years, 
In  lonely  age  he  sinks  forlorn, 
Of  all,  and  even  himself,  the  scorn. 

The  coxcomb's  course  were  gay  and  clever, 
Would  health  and  money  last  for  ever, 
Did  conscience  never  break  the  charm, 
Nor  fear  of  future  worlds  alarm. 

*  From  Progress  of  Dulness,  Part  II. 


JOHN     TRUMBULL.  45 

But  oh,  since  youth  and  years  decay, 
And  life's  vain  follies  fleet  away, 
Since  age  has  no  respect  for  beaux, 
And  death  the  gaudy  scene  must  close — 
Happy  the  man,  whose  early  bloom 
Provides  for  endless  years  to  come  ; 
That  learning  seeks,  whose  useful  gain 
Repays  the  course  of  studious  pain  ; 
Whose  fame  the  thankful  age  shall  raise, 
And  future  times  repeat  its  praise  ; 
Attains  that  heart-felt  peace  of  mind,    . 
To  all  the  will  of  HEAVEN  resigned, 
Which  calms  in  youth,  the  blast  of  rage, 
Adds  sweetest  hope  to  sinking  age, 
With  valued  use  prolongs  the  breath, 
And  gives  a  placid  smile  to  death. 


THE    BELLE.* 

Thus  HARRIET,  rising  on  the  stage, 
Learns  all  the  arts  that  please  the  age ; 
And  studies  well,  as  fits  her  station, 
The  trade  of  politics  and  fashion  : 
A  judge  of  modes  in  silks  and  satins, 
From  tassels  down  to  clogs  and  pattens  ; 
A  genius,  that  can  calculate 
When  modes  of  dress  are  out  of  date  ; 
Cast  the  nativity  with  ease 
Of  gowns,  and  sacks  and  negligees  ; 
And  tell,  exact  to  half  a  minute, 
What 's  out  of  fashion  and  what 's  in  it ; 
And  scanning  all  with  curious  eye, 
Minutest  faults  in  dresses  spy ; 
(So  in  nice  points  of  sight,  a  flea 
Sees  atoms  better  far  than  we  ;) 
A  patriot  too,  she  greatly  labors, 
To  spread  her  arts  among  her  neighbors, 

*  From  Progress  of  Dulness,  Part  III. 


Holds  correspondences  to  learn 
What  facts  the  female  world  concern, 
To  gain  authentic  state-reports 
Of  varied  modes  in  distant  courts, 
The  present  state  and  swift  decays 
Of  tuckers,  handkerchiefs  and  stays, 
The  colored  silk  that  beauty  wraps, 
And  all  the  rise  and  fall  of  caps. 
Then  shines,  a  pattern  to  the  fair, 
Of  mien,  address  and  modish  air, 
Of  every  new,  affected  grace, 
That  plays  the  eye,  or  decks  the  face, 
The  artful  smile,  that  beauty  warms, 
And  all  th'  hypocrisy  of  charms. 

On  Sunday,  see  the  haughty  maid 
In  all  the  glare  of  dress  arrayed, 
Decked  in  her  most  fantastic  gown, 
Because  a  stranger 's  come  to  town. 
Heedless  at  church  she  spends  the  day, 
For  homelier  folks  may  serve  to  pray, 
And  for  devotion  those  may  go, 
Who  can  have  nothing  else  to  do. 
Beauties  at  church  must  spend  their  care  in 
Far  other  work  than  pious  hearing ; 
They  've  beaux  to  conquer,  belles  to  rival ; 
To  make  them  serious  were  uncivil. 
For,  like  the  preacher,  they  each  Sunday 
Must  do  their  whole  week's  work  in  one  day. 

As  though  they  meant  to  take  by  blows 
Th'  opposing  galleries  of  beaux,* 
To  church  the  female  squadron  move, 
All  armed  with  weapons  used  in  love. 
Like  colored  ensigns  gay  and  fair, 
High  caps  rise  floating  in  the  air ; 
Bright  silk  its  varied  radiance  flings, 
And  streamers  wave  in  kissing-strings  ; 
Each  bears  th'  artill'ry  of  her  charms, 
Like  training  bands  at  viewing  arms. 

Young  people  of  different  sexes  used  then  to  sit  in  the  opposite  galleries. 


JOHN     TRUMBULL. 

•>rf•-^-X-'-N_^-^_X-^•^-^-•'-V-'N_^-^^-^-X^ 

So  once,  in  fear  of  Indian  beating, 
Our  grandsires  bore  their  guns  to  meeting, 
Each  man  equipped  on  Sunday  morn, 
With  psalm-book,  shot,  and  powder-horn  ; 
And  looked  in  form,  as  all  must  grant, 
Like  th'  ancient,  true  church  militant ; 
Or  fierce,  like  modern  deep  divines, 
Who  fight  with  quills,  like  porcupines. 

Or  let  us  turn  the  style,  and  see 
Our  belles  assembled  o'er  their  tea  ; 
Where  folly  sweetens  ev'ry  theme, 
And  scandal  serves  for  sugared  cream. 

"  And  did  you  hear  the  news  ?  (they  cry,) 
The  court  wear  caps  full  three  feet  high, 

Built  gay  with  wire,  and  at  the  end  on't, 
Red  tassels  streaming  like  a  pendant. 

Well  sure,  it  must  be  vastly  pretty  ; 

'T  is  all  the  fashion  in  the  city. 

And  were  you  at  the  ball  last  night  ? 

Well,  Chloe  look'd  like  any  fright ; 

Her  day  is  over  for  a  toast ; 

She'd  now  do  best  to  act  a  ghost. 

You  saw  our  Fanny  ;  envy  must  own 

She  figures,  since  she  came  from  Boston. 

Good  company  improves  one's  air — 

I  think  the  troops  were  station'd  there. 

Poor  Coelia  ventured  to  the  place  ; 

The  small-pox  quite  has  spoiled  her  face  ; 

A  sad  affair,  we  all  confest : 

But  Providence  knows  what  is  best. 

Poor  Dolly,  too,  that  writ  the  letter 

Of  love  to  Dick  ;  but  Dick  knew  better ; 

A  secret  that ;  you'll  not  disclose  it ; 

There  's  not  a  person  living  knows  it. 

Sylvia  shone  out,  no  peacock  finer ; 

I  wonder  what  the  fops  see  in  her. 

Perhaps  't  is  true  what  Harry  maintains, 

She  mends  on  intimate  acquaintance." 
Hail  British  lands  !  to  whom  belongs 

Unbounded,  privilege  of  tongues, 


48  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Blest  gift  of  freedom,  prized  as  rare 
By  all,  but  dearest  to  the  fair ; 
From  grandmothers  of  loud  renown, 
Through  long  succession  handed  down, 
Thence  with  affection  kind  and  hearty, 
Bequeathed  urilessened  to  poster'ty  ! 
And  all  ye  powers  of  slander,  hail, 
Who  teach  to  censure  and  to  rail ! 
By  you,  kind  aids  to  prying  eyes, 
Minutest  faults  the  fair  one  spies, 
And  specks  in  rival  toasts  can  mind, 
Which  no  one  else  could  ever  find. 
*         *         *         #         *         #         #     '    i 

With  vast  confusion  swells  the  sound, 
When  all  the  coxcombs  flutter  round. 
What  undulation  wide  of  bows  ! 
What  gentle  oaths  and  amorous  vows  ! 
What  double  entendre s  all  so  smart ! 
What  sighs  hot-piping  from  the  heart ! 
What  jealous  leers  !  what  angry  brawls 
To  gain  the  lady's  hand  at  balls ! 
What  billet-doux,  brimful  of  flame  ! 
Acrostics  lined  with  HARRIET'S  name  ! 
What  compliments,  o'erstrained  with  telling 
Sad  lies  of  VENUS  and  of  HELEN  ! 
What  wits  half-cracked  with  commonplaces 
On  angels,  goddesses  and  graces  ! 
On  fires  of  love  what  witty  puns 
What  similes  of  stars  and  suns  ! 
What  cringing,  dancing,  ogling,  sighing, 
What  languishing  for  love,  and  dying ! 


THE    WEDDING.* 

Poor  HARRIET  now  hath  had  her  day  ; 
No  more  the  beaux  confess  her  sway ; 
New  beauties  push  her  from  the  stage  ; 
She  trembles  at  th'  approach  of  age, 

*  From  Progress  of  Dulness,  Part  III. 


JOHN     TRUMBULL. 

-^~^~^^~^~^^-^^^r-^^^-^i^^^^ 

And  starts  to  view  the  altered  face, 
That  wrinkles  at  her  in  her  glass  : 
So  SATAN,  in  the  monk's  tradition, 
Fear'd,  when  he  met  his  apparition. 

At  length  her  name  each  coxcomb  cancels 
From  standing  lists  of  toasts  and  angels  ; 
And  slighted  where  she  shone  before, 
A  grace  and  goddess  now  no  more, 
Despised  by  all,  and  doomed  to  meet 
Her  lovers  at  her  rival's  feet, 
She  flies  assemblies,  shuns  the  ball, 
And  cries  out,  vanity,  on  all ; 
Affects  to  scorn  the  tinsel-shows 
Of  glittering  belles  and  gaudy  beaux  ; 
Nor  longer  hopes  to  hide  by  dress 
The  tracks  of  age  upon  her  face. 
Now  careless  grown  of  airs  polite, 
Her  noonday  night-cap  meets  the  sight ; 
Her  hair  uncombed  collects  together, 
With  ornaments  of  many  a  feather ; 
Her  stays  for  easiness  thrown  by, 
Her  rumpled  handkerchief  awry, 
A  careless  figure  half  undressed, 
(The  reader's  wits  may  guess  the  rest ;) 
All  points  of  dress  and  neatness  carried, 
As  though  she  'd  been  a  twelvemonth  married  ; 
She  spends  her  breath,  as  years  prevail, 
At  this  sad  wicked  world  to  rail, 
To  slander  all  her  sex  impromptu, 
And  wonder  what  the  times  will  come  to. 

TOM  BRAINLESS,  at  the  close  of  last  year, 
Had  been  six  years  a  rev'rend  Pastor ; 
And  now  resolved,  to  smooth  his  life, 
To  seek  the  blessing  of  a  wife. 
His  brethren  saw  his  amorous  temper, 
And  recommended  fair  Miss  SIMPER, 
Who  fond,  they  heard,  of  sacred  truth, 
Had  left  her  levities  of  youth, 
Grown  fit  for  ministerial  union, 
And  grave,  as  CHRISTIAN'S  wife  in  Bunyan. 


49 


50  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

On  this  he  rigged  him  in  his  best, 
And  got  his  old  grey  wig  new  dressed, 
Fixed  on  his  suit  of  sable  stuffs, 
And  brushed  the  powder  from  the  cuffs, 
With  black  silk  stockings,  yet  in  being, 
The  same  he  took  his  first  degree  in  ; 
Procured  a  horse  of  breed  from  Europe, 
And  learned  to  mount  him  by  the  stirrup, 
And  set  forth  fierce  to  court  the  maid ; 
His  white-haired  Deacon  went  for  aid ; 
And  on  the  right,  in  solemn  mode, 
The  Reverend  Mr.  BRAINLESS  rode  : 
Thus  grave,  the  courtly  pair  advance, 
Like  knight  and  squire  in  famed  romance. 
The  priest  then  bowed  in  sober  gesture, 
And  all  in  Scripture  terms  addressed  her ; 
He  'd  found,  for  reasons  amply  known, 
It  was  not  good  to  be  alone  ; 
So  with  submission,  by  her  leave, 
He  'd  come  to  look  him  out  an  EVE, 
And  hoped,  in  pilgrimage  of  life, 
To  find  an  helpmate  in  a  wife, 
A  wife  discreet  and  fair  withal, 
To  make  amends  for  ADAM'S  fall. 

In  short,  the  bargain  finished  soon, 
A  reverend  Doctor  made  them  one. 

And  now  the  joyful  people  rouse  all 
To  celebrate  their  priest's  espousal ; 
And  first,  by  kind  agreement  set, 
In  case  their  priest  a  wife  could  get, 
The  parish  vote  him  five  pounds  clear, 
T'  increase  his  salary  every  year. 
Then  swift  the  tag-rag  gentry  come 
To  welcome  Madam  BRAINLESS  home  ; 
Wish  their  good  parson  joy  ;  with  pride 
In  order  round  salute  the  bride ; 
At  home,  at  visits  and  at  meetings, 
To  Madam  all  allow  precedence  ; 
Greet  her  at  church  with  rev'rence  due, 
And  next  the  pulpit  fix  her  pew. 


DR.  LEMUEL  HOPKINS. 


[Born  1750.    Died  1801.] 

DR.  LEMUEL  HOPKINS  was  born  at  Waterbury,  on  the  19th  of  June, 
1750.  His  early  education,  though  not  liberal,  was  good  :  and  hav 
ing,  while  yet  a  boy,  decided  upon  the  medical  profession,  he  applied 
himself  to  the  necessary  classical  studies.  After  proper  qualifica 
tion,  he  entered,  as  a  student,  the  office  of  a  physician  in  the  town 
of  Wallingford.  He  commenced  the  practice  of  his  profession  in 
Litchfield,  in  1776,  arid  afterward,  for  a  short  period,  served  in  the 
American  army  as  a  volunteer.  During  his  residence  in  Litchfield 
he  acquired  an  extensive  reputation  for  science  and  skill,  and  about 
the  year  1784  removed  to  Hartford.  Here  he  passed  the  remainder 
of  his  life,  and  died  on  the  14th  of  April,  1801. 

Dr.  HOPKINS  was  devoted  to  literary  pursuits,  and  excelled  in 
humorous  and  satirical  verse.  Soon  after  his  removal  to  Hartford, 
he  was  on  terms  of  intimacy  with  the  wits  for  which  that  city  was 
then  justly  celebrated,  and  was  concerned,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree, 
in  many  of  their  literary  labors.  He  was  associated  with  HUM 
PHREYS,  TRUMBULL  and  BARLOW,  in  a  variety  of  political  publications, 
and  chiefly  in  the  series  of  papers  entitled  "  The  Anarchiad,"  already 
mentioned  in  the  sketch  of  TRUMBULL.  This  work  exerted  a  power 
ful  and  salutary  influence  upon  the  public  mind.  It  gained  for  its 
authors  great  reputation,  of  which  Dr.  HOPKINS  received  his  full 
share.  He  afterward  wrote  parts  of  some  of  the  numbers  of  "  The 
Echo,"  and  "  The  Political  Green-House,"  though  less  concerned  in 
these  publications  than  in  "  The  Anarchiad,"  and  for  several  years 
was  largely  engaged  in  writing  "  New  Year's  Verses "  for  one  of 
the  Hartford  newspapers — a  species  of  writing  which  was  at  that 
time  made  the  vehicle  of  partizan  wit  and  sarcasm.  "  The  Echo  " 
was  a  series  of  satires  on  public  characters  and  events,  first  published 
in  the  newspapers  of  the  day,  and  afterward  collected  in  a  volume 
together  with  "  The  Political  Green-House,"  (and  other  writings  of  a 
similar  character,)  which  had  first  been  published  in  pamphlet  form.* 
In  all  these  writings  the  peculiar  characteristics  of  our  author's  mind 
and  taste  are  exhibited.  His  powers  of  description  are  good ;  his 
satire  is  keen ;  his  humor  is  original  and  pungent ;  while  at  times  a 

*  For  a  confirmed  statement  of  the  true  authorship  of  "  The  Echo,"  see  a 
note  appended  to  the  Life  of  RICHARD  ALSOP,  Esq. 


reckless  levity  of  expression  throws  an  unwelcome  shadow  over  the 
picture.  A  critic  of  his  day  remarks  that  "  his  compositions  were 
somewhat  like  his  personal  appearance  and  manners — singular  and 
eccentric — while  the  peculiarities  of  his  verses  heightened  and  in 
creased  the  force  of  his  satire." 

As  a  physician,  Dr.  HOPKINS  stood  at  the  head  of  his  profession. 
In  his  scientific  labors  he  was  unwearied,  and  "  The  Medical  Society 
of  Connecticut "  is  indebted  to  him  as  one  of  its  founders.  An  anec 
dote  is  related  of  him  which  serves  to  illustrate  some  traits  of  his 
character.  It  will  remind  the  reader  of  his  "  Epitaph  on  a  Patient 
killed  by  a  Cancer  Quack."  At  a  time  when  the  fever  powders  of  a 
quack  well  known  in  the  neighborhood  of  Hartford  were  in  great 
repute  with  the  credulous,  Dr.  HOPKINS  and  his  friend  Dr.  COGSWELL 
were  attending  physicians  in  the  case  of  a  young  lady  who  was  rapidly 
sinking  with  consumption.  A  sister-in-law  of  the  patient  was  pres 
ent,  who  was  a  firm  believer  in  the  efficacy  of  the  "  fever  powders." 
She  was  exceedingly  anxious  to  enlighten  Dr.  HOPKINS  upon  the 
subject  of  their  marvellous  virtues,  but  hesitated  for  some  time,  fear 
ing  to  excite  an  explosion  of  anger  or  derision.  At  length  her  solici 
tude  could  bear  no  longer  restriction,  and  she  timidly  asked  the 
Doctor  "  if  the  fever  powders  would  not  be  of  service  to  the  patient  ]" 
To  her  surprise  he  turned  and  asked  mildly  if  she  had  any  of  them. 
She  answered  in  the  affirmative,  and  immediately  produced  a  dozen 
papers  containing  the  terrific  antidote  of  disease  and  death.  "  How 
are  they  to  be  administered  1"  asked  the  Doctor.  "  In  molasses." 
At  his  request  it  was  immediately  brought,  and  he  proceeded  to  pour 
the  whole  contents  of  one  of  the  papers  into  it.  "  Why  Doctor," 
exclaimed  the  alarmed  lady,  "  the  half  of  one  of  those  papers  will  be 
a  great  portion  for  my  sister."  Without  heeding  the  interruption, 
he  gravely  proceeded  to  empty  the  whole  dozen  papers  into  the  cup, 
and  stirring  it,  with  an  air  of  great  seriousness,  to  the  astonishment 
of  the  company  he  swallowed  the  whole  ;  then  turning  to  his  friend 
with  a  smile,  "  COGSWELL,"  said  he,  "  I  am  going  to  Coventry  to-day. 
If  I  die  from  this,  you  must  write  on  my  tomb-stone,  '  Here  lies 
HOPKINS,  killed  by  GRIMES.'  " 

A  collection  of  Dr.  HOPKINS'  poetry  has  never  been  attempted. 
The  greatest  part  of  his  writings  is  comprised  in  the  above-mentioned 
works,  which  were  written  in  concert  with  others,  and  in  few  in 
stances  only  can  our  author's  portion  in  them  be  determined.  Were 
the  fact  otherwise,  however,  detached  passages  from  articles  refer 
ring  to  characters  and  circumstances  of  a  past  age,  would  in  many 
instances  be  now  wholly  devoid  of  interest.  Some  portions  which 
can  be  fully  identified  as  his,  and  which  touch  on  topics  of  wider 
interest,  we  have  selected,  together  with  the  majority  of  his  fugitive 
compositions. 


DR.     LEMUEL     HOPKINS.  53 


ON   GENERAL   ETHAN    ALLEN. 

Lo,  ALLEN  'scaped  from  British  jails, 
His  tushes  broke  by  biting  nails, 
Appears  in  hyperborean  skies, 
To  tell  the  world  the  Bible  lies. 
See  him  on  green  hills  north  afar, 
Glow  like  a  self-enkindled  star, 
Prepared,  (with  mob-collecting  club 
Black  from  the  forge  of  BEELZEBUB, 
And  grim  with  metaphysic  scowl, 
With  quill  just  plucked  from  wing  of  owl,) 
As  rage  or  reason  rise  or  sink, 
To  shed  his  blood  or  shed  his  ink. 
Behold,  inspired  from  Vermont  dens, 
The  seer  of  Antichrist  descends, 
To  feed  new  mobs  with  hell-born  manna, 
In  gentile  lands  of  Susquehanna  ; 
And  teach  the  Pennsylvania  Quaker 
High  blasphemies  against  his  Maker. 
Behold  him  move,  ye  staunch  divines ! 
His  tall  head  bustling  through  the  pines  ; 
All  front  he  seems,  like  wall  of  brass, 
And  brays  tremendous  as  an  ass  ; 
One  hand  is  clenched  to  batter  noses, 
While  t'  other  scrawls  'gainst  PAUL  and  MOSES  ! 


EPITAPH 

On  a  Patient  killed  by  a  Cancer  Quack. 

Here  lies  a  fool  flat  on  his  back, 
The  victim  of  a  cancer  quack ; 
Who  lost  his  money  and  his  life, 
By  plaster,  caustic,  and  by  knife. 
The  case  was  this — a  pimple  rose 
South-east  a  little  of  his  nose  ; 
Which  daily  reddened  and  grew  bigger, 
As  too  much  drinking  gave  it  vigor : 


54  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

A  score  of  gossips  soon  ensure 

Full  three  score  diff'rent  modes  of  cure  : 

But  yet  the  full-fed  pimple  still 

Defied  all  petticoated  skill ; 

When  fortune  led  him  to  peruse 

A  handbill  in  the  weekly  news, 

Signed  by  six  fools  of  different  sorts, 

All  cured  of  cancers  made  of  warts  ; 

Who  recommend,  with  due  submission, 

This  cancer-monger  as  magician. 

Fear  winged  his  flight  to  find  the  quack, 

And  prove  his  cancer-curing  knack  ; 

But  on  his  way  he  found  another, — 

A  second  advertising  brother  ; 

But  as  much  like  him  as  an  owl 

Is  unlike  every  handsome  fowl ; 

Whose  fame  had  raised  as  broad  a  fog, 

And  of  the  two  the  greater  hog ; 

Who  used  a  still  more  magic  plaster, 

That  sweat,  forsooth,  and  cured  the  faster. 

This  doctor  viewed,  with  moony  eyes 

And  scowled-up  face,  the  pimple's  size  ; 

Then  christened  it  in  solemn  answer, 

And  cried,  "  This  pimple's  name  is  CANCER." 

"  But  courage,  friend,  I  see  you  're  pale, 

My  sweating  plasters  never  fail ; 

I  've  sweated  hundreds  out  with  ease, 

With  roots  as  long  as  maple  trees, 

And  never  failed  in  all  my  trials — 

Behold  these  samples  here  in  vials ! 

Preserved  to  show  my  wond'rous  merits, 

Just  as  my  liver  is — in  spirits. 

For  twenty  joes  the  cure  is  done — " 

The  bargain  struck,  the  plaster  on, 

Which  gnawed  the  cancer  at  its  leisure, 

And  pained  his  face  above  all  measure. 

But  still  the  pimple  spread  the  faster, 

And  swelled  like  toad  that  meets  disaster. 

Thus  foiled,  the  doctor  gravely  swore 

It  was  a  right  rose-cancer  sore  ; 


DR.     LEMUEL     HOPKINS. 


Then  stuck  his  probe  beneath  the  beard, 
And  showed  them  where  the  leaves  appeared ; 
And  raised  the  patient's  drooping  spirits, 
By  praising  up  the  plaster's  merits. 
Then  purged  him  pale  with  jalap  drastic, 
And  next  applies  th'  infernal  caustic  ; 
Which,  gnawing  on  with  fiery  pace, 
Devoured  one  broadside  of  his  face  ; 
"  Courage — 't  is  done  !  "  the  doctor  cried, 
And  quick  the  incision  knife  applied, 
That  with  three  cuts  made  such  a  hole, 
Out  flew  the  patient's  tortured  soul! 

Go,  readers,  gentle,  eke  and  simple, 
If  you  have  wart,  or  corn,  or  pimple, 
To  quack  infallible  apply ; 
Here  's  room  enough  for  you  to  lie. 
His  skill  triumphant  still  prevails, 
For  DEATH  's  a  cure  that  never  fails. 


POLAND.* 

See,  dim  beneath  the  arctic  pole, 
Rude  Russian  hosts  of  ruffians  roll, 
A  sea-like  wave — in  barbarous  pride 
The  Poles  to  conquer  and  divide  ! 
See  FREDERICK  aid  the  base  design, 
And  march  his  legions  from  the  Rhine  ! 
See  KOSCIUSKO  rouse  the  Poles, 
While  indignation  fires  their  souls, 
That  tyrants  leagued  should  still  essay 
To  bend  their  necks  to  foreign  sway ! 
O  son  of  our  great  Son  of  Fame, 
May  deeds  like  his  exalt  thy  name ! 
May  fated  Poland  yet  be  free, 
And  find  a  WASHINGTON  in  thee ! 

*  These  lines,  together  with  the  two  following  selections,  are  from  "  New 
Year's  Verses  for  the  Connecticut  Courant,  January  1,  1795." 


POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 


ROBESPIERRE. 

Nor  can  the  Muse  forget  the  year, 
That  sealed  the  fate  of  ROBESPIERRE  ; 
But  'mid  th'  aristocratic  laugh, 
Will  here  inscribe  his  epitaph ; 
Which  in  some  proper  time  to  come, 
Wre  hope  will  grace  his  mournful  tomb. 

"  Long,  luckless  chief!  thy  guileful  form 
Astride  the  whirlwind,  reined  the  storm ; 
That  storm,  where  streams  of  human  blood 
Drenched  towns  and  realms  like  NOAH'S  flood ; 
Till, hurled  beneath  the  guillotine, 
Where  gasped  thy  nobles,  king,  and  queen, 
W7here  daily  swelled  thy  bounteous  store, 
Of  headless  trunks  and  spouting  gore  ; 
Where  Science'  sons  and  daughters  bled, 
And  priests  by  hecatombs  fell  dead — 
Its  rushing  blade  thy  members  freed, 
From  sins  their  tyrant  head  decreed ; 
And  sent  thy  ghost  to  shades  of  night, 
To  prove,  with  DANTON,  which  of  right 
Should  have  in  hell  the  highest  seat, 
An  atheist  or  a  hypocrite." 

May  HEAVEN  our  favorite  planet  bear 
Far,  far  from  Gallia's  blazing  star  ; 
Ye  lights  of  Europe  shun  its  course, 
Or  order  yields  to  lawless  force, 
As  though  a  random-comet  hurled, 
Should  dash  at  once  and  melt  the  world. 

s 

s 

GENERAL  WAYNE  — AND   THE   WEST. 

See  next  the  veteran  troops  of  WAYNE, 
March  o'er  the  savage  bands  of  slain, 
And  scatter  far,  like  noxious  air, 
Those  victors  of  the  famed  ST.  CLAIR  ; 
While  blustering  SIMCOE,  as  required,  s 

To  bleak  Canadian  climes  retired, 
And  let  his  tawny  friends  remain, 
To  sue  for  proffered  peace  again. 


Here  Fame  reports,  in  vast  expanse, 
A  clime  extends  that  balks  romance, 
Where  sea-like  rivers  wind  their  way 
Through  vast  savannas  to  the  sea  ; 
Clear  lakes  extend,  huge  mountains  rise, 
And  spicy  vales  perfume  the  skies  ; 
Whatever  earth  maternal  yields 
To  deck  the  groves,  or  clothe  the  fields, 
All  fruits  and  flowerets  flourish  here 
And  bloom  like  Eden's  gorgeous  year : 
Birds  bask  in  air,  the  game  in  woods, 
And  finny  nations  crowd  the  floods. 
Here  then,  Columbians,  seek  your  farms, 
When  warlike  WAYNE  shall  quell  alarms 
But  let  not  speculations  vain, 
Exhaust  the  purse  arid  turn  the  brain, 
Nor  grudge  the  roaming  Indian  rude 
To  hunt  his  native  wilds  for  food. 


ON   THE   APPOINTMENT   OF  WASHINGTON 

As  Con,mander-in-Chief  of  the  United  States  Forces,  under  the  first 
President  ADAMS.* 

Eased  now  of  much  incumbent  weight, 
Proceeds  the  business  of  the  state. 
Raised  by  the  sound  of  war's  alarms, 
Our  ardent  youth  all  fly  to  arms, 
And  from  the  work-shop  and  the  field, 
The  active  laborers  seize  the  shield ; 
While  on  the  silvered  brow  of  age, 
Relumes  the  fire  of  martial  rage. 
Our  veteran  chiefs,  whose  honored  scars 
Are  trophies  still  of  former  wars, 
Appointed  move  beneath  their  SHIELD, 
To  reap  the  ripened  martial  field. 
And  lo  !  from  Vernon's  sacred  hill, 
Where  peaceful  spirits  love  to  dwell — 
Where  twice  retired  from  war's  alarms, 
Slept  and  awoke  his  conquering  arms, 
*  From  the  "  Political  Green-House,"  for  the  year  1798. 


The  HERO  comes  ! — whose  laurels  green, 
In  bloom  eternal  shall  be  seen  ; 
While  Gallic  ivy  fades  away, 
Before  the  scorching  eye  of  day. 
He  comes  !  he  comes !  to  re-array 
Your  hosts,  ye  heroes,  for  th'  affray  ! 
Him  for  your  head — collect  from  far 
The  shield,  the  sword,  and  plume  of  war  ! 
Indignant  earth  rejoicing  hears, 
Fell  insult  bristling  up  your  spears, 
And  joins  her  hosts  to  crush  the  foes 
Of  virtue  and  her  own  repose. 


EXTRACT 

From  lines  relating  to  the  prevalence  of  the  Yellow  Fever  in  New  York, 
in  the  Autumn  of  1798.* 

Learn,  then,  Columbians,  ere  too  late, 
If  not  to  cure,  to  ward  the  fate  ; 
For  when  swart  skies  find  filth  beneath, 
They  breed  swift  messengers  of  death. 
Let  BELGIAN  neatness  mantle  o'er 
The  marts  and  towns  around  your  shore  ; 
And  ere  the  dog  star's  sultry  rays 
Dawn  and  decline  with  solar  blaze, 
Stretch  daily  in  warm  baths  your  limbs, 
Or  lave  you  o'er  in  tepid  streams. 
Let  no  late  revels  break  your  rest, 
Nor  passions  rankle  in  the  breast ; 
The  strictest  temperance  of  the  board 
And  glass,  can  potent  aid  afford. 
From  ardent  spirits  most  refrain, 
Dire  sources  of  disease  and  pain. 
Ye  heirs  of  wealth !  to  rural  seats 
Retire  from  summer's  scorching  heats, 
And  let  the  virtuous  sons  of  want 
Throng  glad'ning  round  the  sylvan  haunt 
On  tented  plains,  and  often  taste 
With  you  the  simple,  plain  repast. 

*  From  the  "  Political  Green-House"  for  the  same  year. 


COL.   DAVID   HUMPHREYS. 

[Born  1753.    Died  1818.] 

DAVID  HUMPHREYS,  LL.  D.,  was  born  at  Derby,  in  1753.  He 
was  the  son  of  the  Rev.  DANIEL  HUMPHREYS,  a  Congregational  cler 
gyman,  and  was  favored  with  good  advantages  of  early  instruction. 
In  1767,  he  entered  Yale  College,  where  he  enjoyed  the  intimate 
acquaintance  of  TRUMBULL,  DWIGHT,  and  BARLOW.  The  friendly 
association  then  and  there  begun  was  not  terminated  with  their 
academic  connection,  but  was  strengthened  and  increased  by  new 
and  more  interesting  ties  in  maturer  years. 

Of  the  history  of  HUMPHREYS  after  leaving  college,  in  1771,  we 
have  no  account,  until  the  commencement  of  the  Revolutionary  war, 
when  he  joined  the  army  under  Gen.  PARSONS,  with  the  rank  of 
Captain.  In  1778,  he  was  attached  to  the  staff  of  Gen.  PUTNAM, 
with  the  rank  of  Major  ;  and  in  1780  was  appointed  aid-de-camp  to 
WASHINGTON.  He  retained  this  connection  until  the  close  of  the 
war,  and  particularly  distinguished  himself  at  the  memorable  seige 
of  Yorktown,  a  service,  in  acknowledgment  of  which  Congress  voted 
him  an  elegant  sword.  He  shared  the  entire  confidence  and  friend 
ship  of  the  Commander-in-chief;  and  when  the  army  was  disbanded, 
he  accompanied  his  friend  and  patron  to  his  seat  at  Mount  Vernon, 
where  he  resided  with  him  for  more  than  a  year.  The  friendship  of 
WASHINGTON  he  ever  deemed  a  cause  of  just  pride.  The  times 
passed  in  his  society,  whether  in  camp  or  field,  or  amid  the  peaceful 
shades  of  the  hero's  domestic  bower,  were  green  spots  which  his 
memory  loved  to  dwell  upon  ;  and  the  frequent  allusions  of.  his  verse 
bear  witness  to  the  feelings  of  a  warm  and  grateful  heart. 

In  1784,  when  FRANKLIN,  ADAMS  and  JEFFERSON  were  appointed 
commissioners  to  negotiate  treaties  of  commerce  with  foreign  powers, 
Col.  HUMPHREYS  accompanied  them  as  their  secretary  of  legation. 
He  remained  in  Europe  two  years,  residing  principally  in  Paris  and 
London.  Soon  after  his  return  to  this  country,  in  1786,  he  wras 
chosen  to  represent  his  native  town  in  the  State  Legislature,  and  was 
soon  after  appointed  by  that  body  to  command  a  regiment  to  be  raised 
by  order  of  Congress  for  the  western  service.  These  avocations 
made  him  often  a  resident  at  Hartford,  where  he  renewed  his  former 
intimacy  with  TRUMBULL  and  BARLOW.  In  connection  with  these, 
together  with  Dr.  LEMUEL  HOPKINS,  he  formed  a  literary  copartner- 


60  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

ship,  the  chief  result  of  which  were  the  papers  of  the  celebrated 
"  Anarchiad."  It  has  been  stated  that  Dr.  HOPKINS  was  the  projector 
of  this  series,  and  contributed  the  most  striking  passages  to  the  work. 
But  Judge  TRUMBULL  himself  states  that  Col.  HUMPHREYS  suggested 
the  design,  having  seen  in  England  a  similar  work  called  "The 
Rolliad,"  attributed  to  Fox,  SHERIDAN,  and  others.  Nor,  so  far  as 
we  have  been  able  to  learn,  is  more  credit  due  to  Dr.  HOPKINS  in 
this  matter,  than  to  each  and  all  of  his  associates.  The  articles 
were  mostly  written  in  concert,  and  the  "  glory  of  the  achievement " 
must  be  shared  by  all  alike.  There  is  something  peculiarly  pleasing 
in  contemplating  this  band  of  bards,  linked  by  so  many  ties  of  union. 
The  frequency  of  their  allusions  to  each  other  in  their  writings,  the 
aid  mutually  rendered  in  the  production  of  works  highly  admired  and 
widely  influential  in  their  day,  the  absence  of  all  literary  jealousy, 
and  the  lustre  which  they  shed  around  the  name  of  their  native  state, 
remind  us,  though  it  be  at  a  distance,  of  the  age  of  HORACE  and  VIR 
GIL,  or  that  of  SWIFT,  POPE  and  GAY.  HUMPHREYS,  in  one  of  his 
later  poems,  thus  invokes  his  tuneful  associates : 

"Why  sleep'st  thou,  BARLOW,  child  of  genius?  why 
See'st  thou,  blest  DWIGHT,  our  land  in  sadness  lie  ? 
And  where  is  TRUMBULL,  earliest  boast  of  fame? 
'T  is  yours,  ye  bards,  to  wake  the  smothered  flame  ! 
To  you,  my  dearest  friends,  the  task  belongs 
To  rouse  your  country  with  heroic  songs  !  " 

After  the  reduction  of  his  regiment  in  1787,  Col.  HUMPHREYS 
accepted  an  invitation  to  visit  Mount  Vernon,  where  he  resided  until 
the  organization  of  the  federal  government.  He  accompanied  the 
President  to  New  York,  and  remained  in  his  family  till  1790.  At 
this  time  he  was  appointed  minister  to  Portugal,  and  in  1791  sailed 
for  Lisbon,  being  the  first  American  ambassador  to  that  court.  He 
visited  America  in  1794,  but  soon  returned  to  Lisbon,  where  he 
resided  in  all  seven  years,  and  where  he  was  married  to  Miss  BULK- 
LEY,  an  English  heiress  of  great  accomplishments.  At  the  end  of 
this  period  he  was  transferred  to  the  court  of  Madrid,  as  minister 
plenipotentiary.  During  the  discharge  of  these  official  duties  he 
concluded  treaties  of  peace  with  the  governments  of  Tripoli  and 
Algiers,  and  in  1802,  when  Mr.  PINCKNEY  was  made  minister  to 
Spain,  he  returned  to  the  United  States.  From  this  period,  for  a 
number  of  years,  he  devoted  himself  to  various  objects  of  public 
utility.  A  strong  impetus  was  given  by  him  to  domestic  manufac 
tures  in  his  native  state  :  and  he  also  gave  much  of  his  attention  to 
the  promotion  of  improvements  in  agriculture.  In  1812,  at  the  com 
mencement  of  the  second  war  with  Great  Britain,  Col.  HUMPHREYS 
was  appointed  by  the  Legislature  of  Connecticut  to  the  chief  command 


COL.     DAVID     HUMPHREYS. 


61 


of  the  two  regiments  organized  under  the  name  of  "  The  Veteran 
Volunteers,"  consisting  in  great  part  of  revolutionary  soldiers,  and 
received  the  rank  of  brigadier-general.  This  was  the  last  of  his 
public  services.  Upon  the  expiration  of  his  commission  he  again 
retired  to  private  life,  and  died  at  New  Haven,  on  the  21st  of  Febru 
ary,  1818,  in  the  sixty-fifth  year  of  his  age. 

Although  the  poetical  talents  of  our  author  were  first  developed 
while  he  was  in  college,  he  attracted  little  notice  as  a  poet  until  the 
publication  of  his  "  Address  to  the  Armies  of  the  United  States." 
This  poem  was  written  in  1782,  amid  all  the  bustle  and  excitement 
of  active  military  life,  while  the  American  army  was  encamped  at 
Peekskill.  Its  object  was  to  inspire  those  then  in  the  field  or  who 
should  be  afterward  called  into  it,  with  perseverance  and  fortitude 
to  continue  their  exertions  for  the  defence  of  their  country  and  the 
preservation  of  its  liberties.  The  "  Address  "  was  decidedly  popular. 
It  passed  through  several  editions  in  this  country,  and  in  England ; 
it  was  translated  into  the  French  language  by  the  Marquis  de  CHAS- 
TELLUX,  the  personal  friend  of  the  author ;  and  received  flattering 
notices  from  the  London  and  Parisian  reviews. 

The  other  principal  poems  of  Col.  HUMPHREYS  are  "  A  Poem  on 
the  Happiness  of  America,"  written  during  his  residence  in  London 
and  Paris,  as  secretary  of  legation,  "  The  Widow  of  Malabar,  or  the 
Tyranny  of  Custom,  a  Tragedy,  imitated  from  the  French  of  M.  LE 
MIERRE,"  written  at  Mount  Vernon,  "  A  Poem  on  the  Future  Glory 
of  the  United  States  of  America,"  "  A  Poem  on  the  Industry  of  the 
United  States  of  America,"  written  during  the  author's  residence  at 
the  Court  of  Lisbon,  and  designed  to  incite  to  agricultural  pursuits  and 
improvements,  "A  Poem  on  the  Love  of  Country,"  and  "A  Poem 
on  the  Death  of  General  Washington,"  pronounced  at  the  house  of 
the  American  legation  in  Madrid,  July  4th,  1800.  These  poems  all 
met  with  a  favorable  reception.  That  on  "  The  Happiness  of  Amer 
ica"  was  republished  nine  times  in  three  years,  and  "  The  Widow 
of  Malabar"  had  distinguished  success  on  the  stage. 

In  1790,  the  "  Miscellaneous  Works  "  of  our  author  were  published 
in  an  octavo  volume  in  the  city  of  New  York,  and  again  in  1804. 
The  latter  edition  contains  all  the  above-mentioned  poems,  with  the 
exception  of  the  "  Tragedy,"  only  the  prologue  and  epilogue  of  which 
are  retained,  together  with  the  author's  fugitive  articles,  comprising 
several  sonnets  and  epistles  to  various  friends,  as  also  an  excellent 
biography  of  his  early  friend,  Gen.  PUTNAM,  and  several  other  prose 
compositions,  some  of  which  were  addressed  to  "  The  State  Society 
of  the  Cincinnati  in  Connecticut."  Both  editions  of  the  "  Works  " 
are  dedicated  to  the  Duke  de  ROCHEFOUCAULT,  who  had  been  an 
intimate  friend  of  Col.  HUMPHREYS  during  his  residence  in  France. 
Our  author  contents  himself  with  claiming  "  nothing  beyond  the 


62  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

negative  merit  of  not  having  ever  written  any  thing  unfavorable  to 
the  interests  of  freedom,  humanity  and  virtue."  His  claim  will  be 
freely  granted,  and  also  much  higher  praise.  His  poems  are  of  une 
qual  merit,  and  several  of  them,  as  their  titles  would  indicate,  possess 
much  sameness  of  subject  and  similarity  of  character.  His  style  is 
usually  elegant,  often  vigorous  and  spirited  to  a  high  degree,  and 
sometimes  rises  to  sublimity  ;  while  devotion  to  the  cause  of  freedom 
and  humanity  is  conspicuous  in  all  his  verse,  as  became  the  soldier 
and  poet  of  the  Revolution. 


TRIUMPHS   OF   PEACE.* 

Hail,  heaven-born  Peace  !  thy  grateful  blessings  pour 
On  this  glad  land,  and  round  the  peopled  shore  : 
Thine  are  the  joys  that  gild  the  happy  scene, 
Propitious  days,  and  festive  nights  serene  ; 
With  thee  gay  Pleasure  frolics  o'er  the  plain, 
And  smiling  Plenty  leads  thy  prosperous,  train. 

Then  oh,  my  friends  !  the  task  of  glory  done, 
Th'  immortal  prize  by  your  bold  efforts  won ; 
Your  country's  saviours,  by  her  voice  confessed, 
While  unborn  ages  rise  and  call  you  blest ; 
Then  let  us  go  where  happier  climes  invite, 
To  midland  seas,  and  regions  of  delight ; 
With  all  that 's  ours,  together  let  us  rise, 
Seek  brighter  plains  and  more  indulgent  skies; 
Where  fair  Ohio  rolls  his  amber  tide, 
And  nature  blossoms  in  her  virgin  pride  ; 
Where  all  that  beauty's  hand  can  form  to  please, 
Shall  crown  the  toils  of  war  with  rural  ease. 


So  shall  you  flourish  in  unfading  prime, 
Each  age  refining  through  the  reign  of  time  ; 
A  nobler  offspring  crown  the  fond  embrace, 
A  band  of  heroes,  and  a  patriot  race  ; 
Not  by  soft  luxury's  too  dainty  food, 
Their  minds  contaminated  with  their  blood  ; 
But  like  the  heirs  our  great  forefathers  bred, 
By  freedom  nurtured,  and  by  temperance  fed ; 

From  "  The  Address  to  the  Armies  of  the  United  States  of  America. 


Healthful  and  strong,  they  turned  the  virgin  soil ; 
The  untamed  forest  bowed  beneath  their  toil : 
s  '        At  early  dawn  they  sought  the  mountain  chase, 
Or  roused  the  Indian  from  his  lurking  place  ; 
Curbed  the  mad  fury  of  those  barbarous  men, 
Or  dragged  the  wild  beast  struggling  from  his  den  : 
To  all  the  vigor  of  that  pristine  race, 
New  charms  are  added,  and  superior  grace. 

Then  cities  rise,  and  spiry  towns  increase, 
With  gilded  domes,  and  every  art  of  peace. 
Then  cultivation  shall  extend  his  power, 
Rear  the  green  blade,  and  nurse  the  tender  flower  ; 
.     Make  the  fair  villa  in  full  splendor  smile, 
And  robe  with  verdure  all  the  genial  soil. 
Then  shall  rich  commerce  court  the  favoring  gales, 
And  wondering  wilds  admire  the  passing  sails ; 
Where  the  bold  ships  the  stormy  Huron  brave, 
Where  wild  Ontario  rolls  the  whitening  wave, 
Where  fair  Ohio  his  pure  current  pours, 
And  Mississippi  laves  th'  extended  shores. 

Then  oh,  blest  land!  with  genius  unconfined, 
With  polished  manners,  and  th'  illumined  mind, 
Thy  future  race  on  daring  wing  shall  soar, 
Each  science  trace,  and  all  the  arts  explore ; 
Till  bright  Religion,  beckoning  to  the  skies, 
Shall  bid  thy  sons  to  endless  glories  rise. 

As  round  thy  clime  celestial  joy  extends, 
Thy  'beauties  ripen,  and  thy  pomp  ascends  ; 
farther  and. farther  still  thy  blessings  roll, 
To  southern  oceans  and  the  northern  pole : 
Where  now  the  thorn  or  tangled  thicket  grows, 
The  wilderness  shall  blossom  as  the  rose ; 
Unbounded  deserts  unknown  charms  assume, 
Like  Salem  flourish,  and  like  Eden  bloom. 

And  oh,  may  HEAVEN,  when  all  our  toils  are  past, 
.    Crown  with  such  happiness  our  days  at  last ! 
-:So  rise  our  sons,  like  our  great  sires  of  old, 
.  In  Freedom's. cause  unconquerably  bold; 


)   64  POETS    OF    CONNECTICUT. 

With  spotless  faith,  and  morals  pure  their  name 
Spread  through  the  world,  and  gain  immortal  fame. 

\  And  Thou,  SUPREME  !  whose  hand  sustains  this  ball, 

Before  whose  nod  the  nations  rise  and  fall, 
Propitious  smile,  and  shed  diviner  charms 
On  this  blest  land,  the  queen  of  arts  and  arms ; 
Make  the  great  empire  rise  on  wisdom's  plan, 
The  seat  of  bliss,  and  last  retreat  of  man. 


AMERICAN    WINTER.* 

Then  doubling  clouds  the  wintry  skies  deform ; 
And,  wrapt  in  vapor,  comes  the  roaring  storm ; 
With  snows  surcharged,  from  tops  of  mountains  sails, 
Load  leafless  trees,  and  fills  the  whitened  vales. 
Then  desolation  strips  the  faded  plains  ; 
Then  tyrant  death  o'er  vegetation  reigns  ; 
The  birds  of  heaven  to  other  climes  repair, 
And  deep'ning  glooms  invade  the  turbid  air. 
Nor  then,  unjoyous,  Winter's  rigors  come, 
But  find  them  happy  and  content  with  home  ; 
Their  gran'ries  filled — the  task  of  culture  past — 
Warm  at  their  fire,  they  hear  the  howling  blast, 
With  patt'ring  rain  and  snow,  or  driving  sleet, 
Rave  idly  loud,  and  at  their  window  beat : 
Safe  from  its  rage,  regardless  of  its  roar, 
In  vain  the  tempest  rattles  at  the  door ; 
The  tame  brute  sheltered,  and  the  feathered  brood 
From  them,  more  provident,  demand  their  food. 
'T  is  then  the  time  from  hoarding  cribs  to  feed 
The  ox  laborious,  and  the  noble  steed  : 
'T  is  then  the  time  to  tend  the  bleating  fold, 
To  strew  with  litter,  and  to  fence  from  cold. 

The  cattle  fed — the  fuel  piled  within — 
At  setting  day  the  blissful  hours  begin  : 
'T  is  then,  sole  owner  of  his  little  cot, 
The  farmer  feels  his  independent  lot ; 

*  From  the  "  Poem  on  the  Happiness  of  America." 


COL.     DAVID     HUMPHREYS.  65 

Hears  with  the  crackling  blaze  that  lights  the  wall, 
The  voice  of  gladness  and  of  nature  call ; 
Beholds  his  children  play,  their  mother  smile, 
And  tastes  with  them  the  fruit  of  Summer's  toil. 

' '  From  stormy  heavens  the  mantling  clouds  unrolled, 
The  sky  is  bright,  the  air  serenely  cold. 
The  keen  north-west,  that  heaps  the  drifted  snows, 
For  months  entire  o'er  frozen  regions  blows  : 
Man  braves  his  blast,  his  gelid  breath  inhales, 
And  feels  more  vigorous  as  the  frost  prevails. 
Th'  obstructed  path,  beneath  the  frequent  tread, 
Yields  a  smooth  crystal  to  the  flying  steed. 
'T  is  then  full  oft,  in  arts  of  love  arrayed, 
The  am'rous  stripling  courts  his  future  bride ; 
And  oft,  beneath  the  broad  moon's  paler  day, 
The  village  pairs  ascend  the  rapid  sleigh  ; 
With  jocund  sounds  impel  th'  enlivened  steed — 
Say  ye,  who  know  their  joys,  the  lulling  speed, 
At  every  bridge  the  tributary  kiss  ; 
Can  courtly  balls  exceed  their  rustic  bliss  1 


HEROES   OF   THE    REVOLUTION.* 

Daughters  of  Memory !  maids  !  whose  vigils  keep 
The  lamps  unquenched  in  vaults  where  heroes  sleep  ; 
As  round  the  quivering  flame  ye  tuneful  watch, 
Their  names  from  death  and  dumb  oblivion  snatch : 
Then  Time,  who  meets  Eternity,  shall  find 
What  patriot-chiefs— examples  for  mankind — 
Stood  boldly  'foremost !     Bards  !  the  high  song  raise, 
And  with  their  names  immortalize  your  lays ! 

There,  WASHINGTON  !  thy  form  unrivalled  rose, 
Thy  country's  bulwark !  terror  of  the  foes  ! 
Supreme  o'er  all  in  stature,  talents,  grace, 
The  first  in  merit  as  the  first  in  place. 
There  stood,  in  tactics  skilled,  the  veteran  GATES, 
A  strenuous  victor  for  the  northern  states  : 

•*  From  the  "  Poem  on  the  Love  of  Country." 


(66  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

(       He,  too,  at  BRADDOCK'S  field,  in  early  life, 
(       Had  shared  with  WASHINGTON  that  dreadful  strife. 
Next  GREENE  appeared,  with  self-earned  knowledge 

fraught, 
j       The  strongest  judgment  and  intensest  thought ; 

<  Experience  small  by  genius  great  supplied, 

<  His  firmness  growing  as  new  perils  tried ; 

(       Fertile  in  each  resource — his  piercing  view 
\       Intuitively  looked  creation  through  ; 
J       Clear  in  his  breast  the  whole  campaign  was  planned, 
j       Foredoomed  by  HEAVEN  to  save  our  southern  land. 
<;       His  body  rough  with  scars,  near  GATES  and  GREENE, 
\       Unlettered  PUTNAM'S  lowering  brow  was  seen  ; 
Stern  as  he  stood,  none  more  for  woe  could  feel, 
His  heart  all  softness,  but  Ms  nerves  all  steel  ; 
In  peace  a  lamb,  in  fight  a  lion  fierce, 
And  not  a  name  more  honored  decks  my  verse. 
In  life's  bleak  Winter  SPENCER  ardent  rose, 
But  faint  the  flesh  and  soon  to  seek  repose. 
With  silvered  locks  the  fiery  STIRLING  came, 
O'er  old  experience  blazed  still  new  a  flame ; 
A  furnace  glowed  his  eye — and  grand  his  port, 
Alike  \vas  fitted  for  a  camp  or  court. 

********* 

Where  roared  their  cannon  as  the  battle  bled, 
LAMB,  PROCTOR,  HARRISON  and  STEPHENS  sped; 
From  low  Manhattan  up  the  highland  steep, 
McDoucALL  paced  in  cogitation  deep  ; 
The  CLINTONS  there  in  toils  fraternal  vied, 
(With  York's  battalions,)  void  of  fear  and  pride  ; 
And  SCHUYLER'S  chief  command  had  led  that  force 
Far  to  the  north — but  sickness  checked  his  course. 
Though  there  o'er  ST.  CLAIR  fortune  seemed  to  frown,- 
Shall  fortune  blast  the  warrior's  well-won  crown  ? 
Then  WARREN,  MERCER,  NASH,  MONTGOMERY,  shone, 
Though  dimmed  with  blood — too  liberal  of  their  own ! — 
Like  the  large  oak  that  many  a  Winter  stood, 
The  tallest  glory  of  its  native  \vood, 
WOOSTER  was  seen  to  stand — and  like  that  oak, 
I  saw  him  fall  beneath  the  fatal  stroke. 


COL.     DAVID     HUMPHREYS.  67 

By  ambushed  foes  courageous  SCRIVEN  died, 
Where  Georgia's  fattened  crops  the  slaughter  hide ; 
While  DAVIDSON,  deep- wounded,  gasped  in  gore, 
Where  shoal  Catawba  laved  the  troop-lined  shore. 
When  HERKIMER,  sore  maimed,  still  fighting,  fell, 
Far  o'er  scant  Mohawk  reached  the  Indian  yell : 
Where  WARNER,  GANSEVORT,  the  savage  braved, 
And  nigh  Canadian  lakes  their  starry  standards  waved. 

As  fly  autumnal  leaves  athwart  some  dale, 
Borne  on  the  pinions  of  the  sounding  gale ; 
Or  glides  thin  gossamer  o'er  rustling  reeds, 
ELAND'S,  SHELDON'S,  MOYLAN'S,  BAYLOR'S  battle  steeds 
So  skimmed  the  plain.     Helms  plumed  and  broad-swords 

bright 

Cast  glimpses  o'er  the  ground  like  northern  light. 
There  quick-eyed  ARNOLD,  not  a  traitor  then, 
Vain,  on  his  courser,  soared  mid  mightiest  men  : 
Now  fallen  like  LUCIFER,  the  son  of  morn, 
By  Britain  bribed,  and  doomed  to  deathless  scorn : 
For  falsehood  marked,  to  infamy  consigned, 
One  grateful  truth  he  left  to  glad  mankind, 
That  in  so  long  a  war  his  lonely  crime 
Should  stain  the  annals  of  recording  Time. 

Then  valiant  WAYNE,  with  kindled  anger  warm, 
Bared  his  red  blade  and  claimed  to  drive  the  storm. 
Death-doing  hero  !  still  that  bloody  blade, 
(Long  rusting  in  his  hall,)  again  displayed, 
Through  wildering  woods  will  guide  the  daring  troop, 
For  ever  watchful  of  the  savage  whoop : 
Thence  painted  kings  their  broken  faith  shall  rue, 
Chased  by  the  nimble  horse  in  conflict  new ; 
And,  gashed  with  Bayonne's  steel,  those  kings  no  more 
Shall  teach  their  tribes  to  thirst  for  captive  gore  ; 
For  valiant  WAYNE  shall  bid  the  wood-wars  cease, 
And  give  the  taste  of  civil  arts  with  peace. 

'T  was  then  th'  undaunted  DAYTONS,  sire  and  son, 
With  Jersey-blues  their  different  trophies  won  ; 


68  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

With  these  CADWALLADER  fresh  levies  brought, 

And  DICKENSON,  though  PENN'S  disciple,  fought. 

*  *         *         *         #    .     *         *         *         # 

While  POOR  and  WOODFORD  yield  in  tents  their  breath, 
STARK  rode  victorious  in  the  field  of  death; 
The  mountains-green,  that  witnessed  first  his  fame, 
From  rocks  to  rocks  resounded  far  the  name. 
As  the  tough  horn-beam  (peering  o'er  those  rocks,) 
With  gnarled  grain  the  riving  thunder  mocks  ; 
Indignant  ALLEN, 'manacled  in  vain, 
With  soul  revolting,  bit  the  British  chain. 

Not  last,  though  smallest,  Delaware's  dauntless  throng, 
With  BEDFORD,  HALL,  and  KIRXWOOD,  grace  the  song : 
Nor  less  the  song  of  southern  chiefs  shall  tell, 
How  SUMNER  bled,  and  CAMPBELL  conquering  fell; 
MOULTRIE,  and  MC!NTOSH,  and  ELBERT  stood, 
Though  foiled,  invincible,  in  streams  of  blood ; 
What  time  resistless  Albion's  torrent  force 
Swept  round  the  south  its  wide  and  wasting  course. 
Her  dreadless  horsemen,  high  with  conquest  flushed, 

Through  states  subdued,  like  winds  impetuous  rushed. 

#  #         *         *         #•=*         #         *         # 

Nor  shall  my  lay  withhold  the  just  applause 
From  foreign  chiefs  who  came  to  aid  our  cause  : 
Their  various  garbs,  and  arms,  and  language  strange, 
To  lend  more  service,  straight  the  warriors  change. 
STEUBEN,  mature  in  years,  from  Prussia's  plains, 
The  peerless  FREDERICK'S  art  of  war  explains. 
FAYETTE'S  light  corps  its  well-earned  fame  supports 
And  ARMAND'S  legion  rash  adventures  courts. 
With  Poland's  sufferings  rankling  in  his  mind, 
Our  levied  forces  KOSCIUSKO  joined, 
Expert  to  change  the  front,  retreat,  advance, 
And  judge  of  ground  with  military  glance  : 
While  strong  PULASKI'S  troops  for  battle  rave, 
Intrepid  swordsmen  !  bravest  of  the  brave  ! 
These  chiefs  illustrious  led,  in  part,  the  host ; 
But  who  can  name  Columbia's  countless  boast  ? 
Who  count  the  sands  by  eddying  whirlblasts  driven, 
Or  number  all  the  stars  that  rise  in  heaven  ? 


THE   VETERAN'S   TALE.* 

But  different  ages  different  joys  inspire, 
Where  friendly  circles  crowd  the  social  fire : 
For  there  the  neighbors,  gath'ring  round  the  hearth, 
Indulge  in  tales,  news,  politics,  and  mirth  : 
Nor  need  we  fear  th'  exhausted  fund  should  fail, 
While  garrulous  old  age  prolongs  the  tale. 
There  some  old  warrior,  grown  a  village  sage, 
Whose  locks  are  whitened  with  the  frosts  of  age, 
While  life's  low  burning  lamp  renews  its  light, 
With  tales  heroic  shall  beguile  the  night ; 
Shall  tell  of  battles  fought,  of  feats  achieved, 
And  suff 'rings  ne'er  by  human  heart  conceived ; 
Shall  tell  th'  adventures  of  his  early  life, 
And  bring  to  view  the  fields  of  mortal  strife  : 
What  time  the  matin  trump  to  battle  sings, 
And  on  his  steed  the  horseman  swiftly  springs, 
While  down  the  line  the  drum,  with  thundering  sound, 
Wakes  the  bold  soldier,  slmnb'ring  on  the  ground  ; 
Alarmed  he  starts  ;  then  sudden  joins  his  band, 
Who,  ranged  beneath  the  well-known  banner,  stand  ; 
Then  ensigns  wave,  and  signal  flags  unfurled, 
Bid  one  great  soul  pervade  a  moving  world ; 
Then  martial  music's  all-inspiring  breath, 
With  dulcet  symphonies,  leads  on  to  death  ; 
Lights  in  each  breast  the  living  beam  of  fame, 
Kindles  the  spark,  and  fans  the  kindled  flame  : 
Then  meets  the  steadfast  eye  the  splendid  charms 
Of  prancing  steeds,  of  plumed  troops  and  arms  : 
Reflected  sunbeams,  dazzling,  gild  afar 
The  pride,  the  pomp,  and  circumstance  of  war  ; 
Then  thick  as  hail-stones,  from  an  angry  sky, 
In  vollied  showers  the  bolts  of  vengeance  fly  ; 
Unnumbered  deaths,  promiscuous,  ride  the  air, 
While,  swift  descending,  with  a  frightful  glare, 
The  big  bomb  bursts  ;  the  fragments  scattered  round, 
Beat  down  whole  bands,  and  pulverize  the  ground. 

*  From  the  "  Poem  on  the  Happiness  of  America." 


70  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^-^^^^^^•^^^^-^^-^^^ 

Then  join's  the  closer  fight  on  Hudson's  banks  ; 
Troops  strive  with  troops ;  ranks  bending  press  on  ranks ; 
O'er  slipp'ry  plains. the -struggling  legions  reel ; 
Then  livid -lead  and  Bayonne's  glittering  steel, 
With  dark-red  wounds  their  mangled  bosoms  bore  ; 
While  furious  coursers,  snorting  foam  and  gore, 
Bear  wild  their  riders  o'er  the  carnaged  plain, 
And,  falling,  roll  them  headlong  on  the  slain. 
To  ranks  consumed,  another  rank  succeeds ; 
Fresh  victims  fall ;  afresh  the  battle  bleeds  ; 
And  nought  of  .blood  can  staunch  the  opened  sluice, 
Till  night,  o'ershadowing,  brings  a  grateful  truce  ! 
Thus  will  the  veteran  tell  the  tale  of  wars, 
Disclose  his  breast,  to  count  his  glorious  scars; 
In  mute  amazement  hold  the  list'ning  swains ;  v  .- 
Make  freezing  horror  creep  through  all  their  veins ; 
Or  oft,  at  Freedom's  name,  their  souls  inspire 
With  patriot  ardor  and  heroic  fire. 


SONNET, 

Addressed  to  his  Royal  Highness,  the  Prince  of  Brazil,  on  taking  leave  of 
the  Court  of  Lisbon,  July,  1797. 

Farewell,  ye  flowery  fields !  where  nature's  hand 

Profusely  sheds  her  vegetable  store, 
Nurtured  by  genial  suns  and  zephyrs  bland  ! 

Farewell,  thou  Tagus  !  and  thy  friendly  shore  : 

Long  shall  my  soul  thy  lost  retreats  deplore, 
Thy  haunts  where  shades  of  heroes  met  my  eyes — 

As  oft  I  mused  where  CAMOENS  trod  before, 
I  saw  the  godlike  form  of  GAMA  rise, 
With  chiefs  renowned  beneath  your  eastern  skies. 

Oh,  long  may  peace  and  glory  cro^n  thy  scene ! 
Farewell,  just  Prince  !  no  sycophantic  lay 

Insults  thy  ear — be  wlat  thy  sires  have  been, 
Thy  great  progenitors  !  who  oped  the  way 
Through  seas  unsailed  before  to  climes  of  orient  day. 


COL.     DAVID     HUMPHREYS.  71 

^^^wX^.i^r^^_>^_/-s_i^^ 

THE   IMMORTALITY   OF   VIRTUE.* 

"  Let  all  creation  fail,"  the  prophets  sung, 
While  holy  rapture  trembled  on  their  tongue  ; 
"  Let  rocks  dissolve,  seas  roar,  and  mountains  nod, 
And  all  things  tremble  to  the  throne  of  GOD  ; 
Matter  and  motion  cease  from  nature's  course, 
Her  laws  controlled  by.  some  superior  force  ; 
To  final  ruin,  stars  and  comets  rush, 
Suns  suns  consume,  and  systems  systems  crush ; 
These  heavens  stretched  visible,  together  roll 
Inflamed,  and  vanish  like  a  burning  scroll : 
Though  death,  and  night,  and  chaos  rule  the  ball, 
Though  nature's  self  decay — the  soul,  o'er  all, 
Survives  the  wrecks  of  matter  and  of  time, 
Shrined  in  immortal  youth  and  beauty's  prime  ; 
High  o'er  the  bounds  of  this  diurnal  sphere, 
To  bloom  and  bask  in  HEAVEN'S  eternal  year." 

Where  uncreated  light  no  sun  requires, 
And  other  splendors  beam  unborrowed  fires ; 
On  our  loved  chief,  long  tried  in  virtue's  toils, 
With  bliss  ineffable  the  Godhead  smiles; 
In  the  full  blaze  of  day,  his  angel-frame 
For  ever  shines  another  and  the  same. 

Heroic  chiefs !  who,  fighting  by  his  side, 
Lived  for  your  country,  for  your  country  died — 
If  ye  behold  us  from  the  holy  place, 
"  Angels  and  spirits,  ministers  of  grace," 
And  sainted  forms,  who  erst  incarnate  strove, 
Through  thorny  paths  to  reach  the  bliss  above  ! 
Protect  our  orphaned  land,  propitious  still, 
To  virtue  guide  us  and  avert  from  ill ! 

ANCIENT  OF  DAYS  !  unutterable  name  ! 
At  whose  command  all  worlds  from  nothing  came  ; 
Beneath  whose  frown  the  nations  cease  to  be — 
Preserve,  as  thou  hast  made,  our  nation  free  ! 
To  guard  from  harms  send  forth  thy  hallowed  band ; 
Be  thou  a  wall  of  fire  around  our  land, 

*  From  the  "  Poem  on  the  Death  of  General  WASHINGTON." 


)   72  POETS    OF    CONNECTICUT. 

Above  the  frail  assaults  of  flesh  and  sense  ! 
And  in  the  midst  our  glory  and  defence  ! 

Open,  ye  gates,  instinct  with  vital  force, 
That  earth  with  heaven  may  hold  high  intercourse  ! 
Open,  ye  portals  of  eternal  day ! 
Through  worlds  of  light  prepare  the  glorious  way  ! 
Come,  sons  of  bliss,  in  bright'ning  clouds  revealed ! 
Myriads  of  angels  throng  th'  aerial  field ! 
Come,  sainted  hosts  !  and  from  thy  happier  home, 
Thou,  WASHINGTON,  our  better  angel,  come ! 
And,  lo !  what  vision  bursts  upon  my  sight, 
Robed  in  th'  unclouded  majesty  of  light? 
'T  is  he — and  hark !  I  hear,  or  seem  to  hear, 
A  more  than  mortal  voice  invade  my  ear  ; 
"  To  me,"  the  vision  cries,  "  to  speak  is  given, 
Mortals  !  attend  the  warning  voice  of  HEAVEN  ; 
Your  likeness  love  !  adore  the  Power  divine  ! 
So  shall  your  days  be  blest,  your  end  like  mine  ' 
So  will  OMNIPOTENCE  your  freedom  guard, 
And  bliss  unbounded  be  your  great  reward  ! " 


SONNET— THE   SOUL. 

My  heaven-born  soul !  by  body  unconfined, 

Leave  that  low  tenement,  and  roam  abroad  : 
Forestall  the  time,  when,  left  each  clog  behind, 

Thy  flight  shall  mount  where  never  mortal  trod. 
Ev'n  now,  methinks,  upborne  in  tranced  dreams, 

The  disencumbered  essence  tries  its  wings  ; 
Sees  better  planets,  basks  in  brighter  beams, 

To  purer  sight  mysterious  symbols  brings, 

Of  unconceived,  unutterable  things. 
Though  dust  returned  to  dust  the  worms  devour, 

Thee  can  dread  death  annihilate  or  bind  ? 
There,  King  of  Terrors  !  stops  thy  dreaded  power ; 

The  bright  assurgent  from  all  dross  refined, 
High  o'er  th'  immense  of  space  regains  the  world  of  mind. 


s-**^~^s~^s~^>~^r>t^^r^~*^^s^s-<**s*^s~^S*^ 

JOEL     BARLOW.  73    i 


JOEL    BARLOW,    LL.    D 


[Born  1755.    Died  1812.] 

JOEL  BARLOW,  LL.  D.,  was  born  at  Reading,  in  Fairfield  county, 
in  1755.  His  father  was  a  farmer,  in  moderate  circumstances,  who 
died  while  the  subject  of  our  sketch  was  yet  a  boy,  leaving  him, 
however,  sufficient  patrimony  to  provide  for  his  liberal  education. 
After  pursuing  the  necessary  preparatory  studies,  young  BARLOW 
was  placed  by  his  guardians  at  Dartmouth  College,  in  New  Hamp 
shire,  in  1774.  Here  he  remained  for  a  short  time  only,  when  he 
was  transferred  to  Yale  College,  where  he  completed  his  academic 
course.  While  in  this  institution,  he  shared  the  intimate  society  of 
DWIGHT,  then  a  tutor  in  the  college,  whose  notice  he  had  attracted 
by  his  poetical  talents,  and  formed  the  acquaintance  also  of  TRUMBULL, 
then  a  practising  lawyer  of  New  Haven,  and  of  HUMPHREYS,  who 
had  been  graduated  a  few  years  before.  During  BARLOW'S  collegiate 
days  the  war  of  the  Revolution  began,  and  the  heart  of  the  student 
yearned  for  the  hazards  of  the  camp,  where  four  of  his  brothers  were 
already  in  arms  in  the  cause  of  their  country.  He  entered  as  a 
volunteer  the  ranks  of  the  militia  of  his  native  state  ;  and  while  he 
still  applied  himself  during  the  sessions  of  college  faithfully  to  his 
classical  pursuits,  he  employed  his  vacations  in  fighting  the  battles 
of  freedom.  He  shared  in  various  engagements  with  the  enemy, 
and  is  said  to  have  borne  a  part  in  the  severe  contest  at  White  Plains. 
In  1778,  he  received  the  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Arts,  and  on  this 
occasion  delivered  an  original  poem  "  On  the  Prospect  of  Peace," 
the  first  specimen  of  his  verse  which  he  offered  to  the  public.  The 
poem  possessed  much  merit — and  is  preserved  in  the  volume  of 
"American  Poems,"  printed  at  Litchfield,  in  1793.  An  extract 
from  it,  comprising  its  conclusion,  will  be  found  among  the  selections 
which  succeed  this  sketch. 

After  completing  his  academic  course,  BARLOW  applied  himself 
for  a  short  time  to  the  study  of  the  law.  But  upon  the  earnest 
solicitation  of  his  friends  that  he  should  qualify  himself  for  the  office 
of  chaplain  in  the  army,  he  commenced  the  study  of  theology.  After 
a  preparation  of  six  weeks  he  received  a  license,  and  repaired  imme 
diately  to  the  camp.  He  entered  upon  the  duties  of  his  new  office 
with  much  ardor,  and  remained  in  the  army  until  the  close  of  the 
war.  In  the  performance  of  his  professional  services  he  gave  general 
satisfaction,  and  further  aided  the  cause  of  freedom  by  composing  in 


74  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

concert  with  his  old  friends  DWIGHT,  now  a  chaplain  also,  and  Col. 
HUMPHREYS,  various  patriotic  songs  and  addresses,  which  were 
supposed  to  exert  a  highly  favorable  influence  upon  the  minds  of  the 
soldiery.  He  commenced  also,  during  his  connection  with  the  army, 
"  The  Vision  of  Columbus,"  which  afterward  formed  the  basis  of 
his  great  national  epic,  "  The  Columbiad." 

In  1781,  BARLOW  received  the  degree  of  Master  of  Arts,  on  which 
occasion  he  delivered  another  poem,  afterward  embodied  in  his 
"  Vision  of  Columbus."  About  this  period  he  married  a  daughter  of 
the  Hon.  ABRAHAM  BALDWIN,  then  a  resident  of  New  Haven,  who 
subsequently  removed  to  the  state  of  Georgia,  and  was  for  many 
years  a  distinguished  member  of  Congress.  After  the  peace,  in 
1783,  our  author,  being  out  of  employment,  resolved  to  resume  his 
legal  studies.  He  had  assumed  the  clerical  profession  only  with  a 
view  to  a  chaplaincy,  and  now  felt  no  scruple  in  relinquishing  it,  in 
favor  of  his  former  choice.  With  this  view  he  removed  to  Hartford, 
and  settled,  as  he  supposed,  for  life.  To  add  to  his  income  he 
established  a  weekly  gazette,  entitled  "  The  American  Mercury," 
which  gained  for  him  much  reputation  by  his  able  editorial  manage 
ment.  In  1785  he  was  admitted  to  the  bar,  and  during  the  same  year 
was  requested  by  the  clergy  of  the  "  General  Association  "  of  the 
Congregational  Church  in  Connecticut  to  prepare  a  revised  edition 
of  Dr.  WATTS'  Psalms.  Many  of  the  Psalms  in  that  version  were 
"  locally  appropriated ;"  and  it  was  deemed  desirable  by  the  "  Asso 
ciation"  that  they  should  be  altered  and  applied  to  the  state  of 
the  Christian  Church  in  general.  Some  other  alterations  in  the 
phraseology  were  thought  expedient :  and  furthermore,  twelve  of  the 
Psalms  of  David  had  been  omitted  in  Dr.  WATTS'  version.  BARLOW 
readily  assumed  the  task  thus  imposed  upon  him,  and  prepared  a 
revised  version  of  the  work.  The  supposed  inaccuracies  in  the 
language  were  corrected ;  the  portions  which  had  been  "  locally 
appropriated  "  were  re- written ;  and  the  omitted  Psalms  were  supplied 
by  the  editor  and  his  poetical  friends.  Of  these,  the  one  hundred 
and  thirty-seventh,  from  the  pen  of  BARLOW,  has  been  deemed  one 
of  the  most  elegant  versions  ever  afforded  of  that  pathetic  song  of 
captivity.  Some  controversy  has  lately  arisen,  touching  its  author- 
j  ship.  But  a  letter  of  Judge  TRUMBULL,  in  which  he  distinctly 

<  declares  that  it  was  the  work  of  BARLOW,  sets  the  question  at  rest. 

<  In    addition  to  these   above-mentioned    improvements,   our   editor 
£  appended  to  his  volume  a  collection  of  hymns,  several  of  which  were 
<!  written  by  himself;  and  the  "Psalms "thus  revised,  received  the 
<?  full  sanction  of  those  at  whose  request  the  work  had  been  undertaken. 
(  It  was  published  during  the  year  1785,  and  for  many  years  was  used 
j  as  the  authorized  version  of  the  Congregational  churches. 

The  connection  of  our  author  with  the  literary  club  for  which 


JOELBARLOW.  75   { 

Hartford  was  celebrated,  has  been  mentioned  in  some  of  the  preced 
ing  sketches.  He  assisted  in  their  various  associated  labors,  but 
especially  in  the  papers  of  "  The  Anarchiad,"  and  shared  in  the 
reputation  which  its  authors  so  well  deserved.  In  1787  he  published 
"  The  Vision  of  Columbus,"  a  poem  upon  which  he  had  been  long 
engaged,  dedicated  "  To  his  most  Christian  Majesty,  Louis  the 
Sixteenth,  King  of  France  and  Navarre.1'  The  work  was  well 
received.  It  was  re-printed  in  London  and  Paris,  and  met  generally 
with  favorable  notice  from  the  principal  reviews  of  the  day.  Soon 
afterward  he  relinquished  his  interest  in  his  newspaper,  and  estab 
lished  a  bookstore,  for  the  purpose  of  furthering  the  sale  of  his  book 
of  "  Psalms  "  and  poem,  which,  having  been  accomplished,  he  again 
resumed  the  practice  of  law.  He  was  deficient  in  forensic  abilities, 
and  his  mind  was  too  much  absorbed  in  matters  of  literary  and 
political  interest  to  enable  him  to  devote  himself  to  the  duties  of  his 
profession  with  that  assiduity  which  could  alone  have  insured 
success.  But  his  attention  was  soon  directed  to  a  new  enterprise, 
which  changed  the  character  of  his  life  and  fortunes.  He  accepted 
a  foreign  agency  for  an  association  of  speculators,  called  "  The 
Sciota  Land  Company."  The  claims  of  the  company  to  large  tracts 
of  western  lands  were  illegal,  and  their  transactions  consequently 
fraudulent.  Yet  of  this  BARLOW  was  wholly  ignorant.  He  under 
took  his  commission  in  good  faith,  and  in  1788  embarked  for  England. 
From  this  country,  he  proceeded  in  a  short  time  to  France,  where 
he  succeeded  in  disposing  of  some  of  the  lands  claimed  by  his 
employers.  But  learning  the  dishonest  character  of  the  company 
under  whom  he  was  acting,  he  relinquished  his  agency,  having 
derived  from  it  but  very  little  pecuniary  advantage. 

At  this  period  the  Revolution  in  France  was  in  full  progress. 
BARLOW  warmly  espoused  the  cause  of  the  Republican  party.  He 
became  intimately  acquainted  with  many  of  its  leaders,  and  distin 
guished  himself  as  an  active  partizan  of  the  "  G  irondists."  It  cannot 
be  matter  of  surprise  that  one  who  had  so  recently  distinguished 
himself  as  a  lover  of  liberty  in  America,  should  now  have  imbibed 
the  common  spirit  of  enthusiasm  which  reigned  around  him,  and 
should  have  anticipated,  in  the  success  of  revolutionary  principles, 
the  overturn  of  despotic  power,  and  the  establishment  of  peace, 
order,  and  happiness. 

In  1791  our  author  returned  to  England,  and  in  the  course  of  that 
year  published  in  London  the  first  part  of  a  poetical  work  entitled 
"  Advice  to  the  Privileged  Orders,"  which,  with  additions,  has  been 
several  times  re-printed.  It  was  aimed,  as  its  title  would  indicate, 
at  many  of  the  peculiar  features  of  aristocratic  governments,  and 
attracted  so  much  attention  that  the  celebrated  Fox  is  said  to  have 
pronounced  a  formal  eulogy  upon  it  in  the  House  of  Commons.  In 


76 


POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 


1792,  a  short  poem  appeared,  from  the  same  pen,  entitled  "  The 
Conspiracy  of  Kings,"  suggested  by  the  coalition  of  the  European 
sovereigns  against  republican  France ;  and  in  the  autumn  of  the  same 
year,  BARLOW  addressed  a  letter  to  the  French  National  Convention, 
in  which  he  pointed  out  the  defects  of  their  first  Constitution,  and 
recommended  the  abolition  of  the  royal  power,  the  severance  of 
church  and  state,  with  various  other  reforms.  Soon  afterward  "  The 
London  Constitutional  Society "  voted  an  address  to  the  National 
Convention,  and  BARLOW,  with  another  member,  was  deputed  to 
present  it  in  person.  He  was  received  in  Paris  with  every  token  of 
respect,  and  the  rights  of  citizenship  were  conferred  upon  him — an 
honor  which  had  before  been  granted  to  his  distinguished  country 
men,  WASHINGTON  and  HAMILTON. 

The  notice  which  was  taken  by  the  British  government  of  this 
mission,  rendered  it  unsafe  for  BARLOW  to  return  to  England,  and 
he  determined  to  make  Paris  his  residence.  During  the  following 
year  a  deputation,  of  which  GREGOIRE,  formerly  Bishop  of  Blois, 
and  the  personal  friend  of  our  author,  was  a  member,  was  sent  by 
the  National  Convention  to  Savoy,  to  organize  it  into  a  department 
of  the  Republic.  BARLOW,  in  connection  with  his  friend,  accompa 
nied  the  delegation  to  Chamberry,  the  capital  of  the  territory,  where 
he  passed  the  winter.  At  the  request  of  his  friends  he  wrote  an 
address  to  the  inhabitants  of  Piedmont,  inciting  them  to  throw  off 
their  allegiance  to  the  king  of  Sardinia.  It  was  translated  into 
French  and  Italian,  and  distributed  throughout  the  country,  but  was 
generally  supposed  to  have  produced  but  little  effect.  During  his 
residence  here  he  also  composed  his  celebrated  "  Hasty  Pudding." 
This  has  been  a  decidedly  popular  poem  ;  it  has  elicited  the  strongest 
expressions  of  approbation,  and  proves  that  while  the  distinguished 
exile  had  been 

"  Doomed  o'er  the  world  through  devious  paths  to  roam," 

and  while  he  was  engrossed  in  matters  of  deep  political  importance, 
his  heart  still  tenderly  vibrated  at  the  thought  of  home ;  and  its 
homeliest  associations  were  still  cherished  with  the  fondest  and 
liveliest  recollections.  From  Savoy  our  author  returned  to  Paris, 
where  he  remained  for  the  three  following  years.  He  refrained 
from  all  literary  occupation,  except  that  of  furnishing  a  translation 
of  "  Yolney's  Ruins,"  and  gave  his  attention  to  commercial  pursuits, 
from  which  he  derived  much  pecuniary  profit.  Although  he  still 
remained  an  ardent  republican,  yet  the  atrocities  which  marked  the 
conduct  of  the  revolutionists  induced  him  to  withdraw  from  all  > 
political  affairs ;  while  his  course  of  neutrality  insured  for  him  a  ) 
degree  of  safety  in  the  midst  of  surrounding  dangers. 

In  1795,  after  his  return  to   Paris  from  the   north  of  Europe,  jj 
whither  he  had  gone  on  a  business  agency,  BARLOW  was  appointed  / 


JOELBARLOW.  77 

by  President  WASHINGTON  Consul  to  Algiers,  with  power  to  negotiate 
a  treaty  of  peace  with  the  Dey,  and  to  ransom  all  Americans  who 
might  be  held  in  slavery  upon  the  coast  of  Barbary.  He  accepted 
the  appointment,  and  proceeded  immediately  upon  his  mission. 
Passing  through  Spain  to  the  Mediterranean,  he  proceeded  to 
Algiers,  and  there,  after  encountering  many  obstacles,  concluded 
the  treaty  favorably.  The  following  year  he  effected  a  similar  treaty 
with  the  governments  of  Tripoli  and  Tunis,  ransoming  all  American 
captives  whom  he  could  discover,  amounting  in  all  to  about  one 
hundred,  often  exposing  himself,  it  is  said,  to  the  severest  dangers, 
in  prosecuting  his  benevolent  enterprise,  and  sometimes  even  hazard 
ing  his  life.  In  1797  he  resigned  his  consulship,  and  returned  again 
to  Paris.  Here  he  embarked  anew  in  commercial  speculations,  from 
which  he  realized  a  fine  fortune.  He  purchased  the  splendid  hotel 
of  the  Count  CLERMONT  TONNERE,  in  which  he  resided  for  a  number 
of  years  in  an  elegant  and  costly  style.  Although  not  instructed  by 
our  government  to  attempt  any  negotiation  respecting  the  difficulties 
which  arose  between  the  United  States  arid  France,  BARLOW  never 
theless  exerted  his  talents  and  influence  to  effect  an  amicable 
adjustment.  To  this  end  he  addressed  a  letter  to  his  countrymen 
upon  the  measures  of  the  dominant  political  party.  This  was 
followed  by  another,  in  which  various  political  topics  were  examined, 
as  also  certain  established  principles  of  maritime  law  and  the  rights 
of  neutrals.  The  views  thus  advanced  were  novel  and  bold,  and 
based  upon  those  views  of  abstract  right  which  their  author  regarded 
as  the  only  true  policy.  About  the  same  time  he  offered  a  memoir 
to  the  French  government,  upon  the  subject  of  privateering,  blockade, 
and  other  points  in  maritime  warfare.  This  was  respectfully  received ; 
but  the  new  constitution,  with  a  view  to  which  the  memoir  was 
designed,  was  hurried  through  with  great  expedition,  to  further  the 
purposes  of  some  of  the  leading  politicians,  and  our  author's  sugges 
tions  were  passed  by  in  silence. 

At  length,  in  1805,  after  seventeen  eventful  years  of  absence,  the 
poet  returned  to  his  native  country,  with  the  determination  of  making 
it  his  residence  for  the  remainder  of  his  life.  After  a  few  months 
spent  in  travel,  and  viewing  the  social  and  political  improvements  of 
the  country,  he  fixed  his  residence  within  the  District  of  Columbia, 
near  the  city  of  Washington.  Here  he  erected  a  beautiful  mansion, 
to  which  he  gave  the  name  of  "  Kalorama,"  and  lived  in  an  elegant 
and  hospitable  manner,  on  terms  of  the  most  friendly  intimacy  with 
the  President,  and  many  of  the  most  distinguished  public  functiona 
ries  and  private  citizens  connected  with  the  capital.  But  his  mind 
had  too  long  been  actively  exercised  in  matters  of  public  utility  to 
remain  idle,  and  he  engaged  with  zeal  in  efforts  for  the  advancement 
of  the  arts  and  sciences  among  his  countrymen.  One  of  his  principal 


78  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT.  j 

schemes  was  the  establishment  of  a  national  institution,  under  the  s 
patronage  of  government,  which  should  combine  a  university  with  a  < 
learned  society,  a  naval  and  military  school,  and  an  academy  of  fine  I 
arts,  on  a  plan  resembling  that  of  the  National  Institute  of  France.  ' 
Such  an  institution  had  been  desired  by  WASHINGTON,  and  received 
now  the   sanction   of  JEFFERSON.     In   1806,  BARLOW  drew  up  a 
prospectus  of  the  proposed  academy,  and  circulated  it  through  the 
country.     The  plan  met  with  much  opposition  from  the  friends  of 
several  literary  institutions ;   but  was  so   cordially  entertained  by 
others  that  the  subject  was  brought  before  Congress.     A   bill  to 
incorporate  an  institution  upon  the  proposed  plan  was  introduced  in 
the  Senate,  but  failed  to  become  a  law. 

After  this  defeat,  our  author  devoted  his  chief  attention  to  the  final 
revision  of  his  great  epic  poem — a  work  to  which  he  had  devoted 
much  of  his  leisure  for  many  years.  In  1808, "The  Columbiad" 
was  published,  in  a  magnificent  quarto  volume,  embellished  with 
engravings  by  the  first  London  artists,  and  surpassing  in  the  beauty 
of  its  typography  any  work  before  published  in  the  country.  It  was 
dedicated  to  ROBERT  FULTON,  with  whom  the  author  was  on  terms 
of  great  intimacy.  The  high  price  necessarily  demanded  for  this 
edition  prevented  its  general  circulation ;  and  during  the  following 
year  an  edition  was  published  in  duodecimo  form,  in  two  volumes. 
It  was  also  re-published  in  London,  in  an  elegant  royal  octavo  volume. 

We  have  before  remarked  that  "  The  Vision  of  Columbus  "  formed 
the  basis  of  "The  Columbiad."  Both  poems  are  patriotic,  and  their 
subject  national  and  historical.  The  latter  poem  is  an  expansion  of 
the  former,  with  such  improvements  as  the  leisure  of  the  author 
during  twenty  years  enabled  him  to  bestow.  It  consists  of  a  series 
of  visions,  presented  by  HESPER,  the  guardian  Genius  of  the  western 
continent,  to  COLUMBUS,  while  languishing  in  the  prison  of  Valladolid, 
where  he  is  first  introduced  to  the  reader  awaking  from  a  painful, 
delirious  sleep,  and  uttering  a  mournful  monologue  upon  his  ill- 
requited  services.  The  hero  and  his  Genius  quit  the  dungeon,  and 
ascend  the  mount  of  vision,  which  rises  over  the  western  coast  of 
Spain.  Europe  settles  from  their  sight ;  the  Atlantic  is  spread 
beneath  their  feet;  and  the  continent  of  America  is  revealed  to  their 
view.  The  visions  then  exhibit  successively,  in  the  order  of  time, 
the  conquest  and  settlement  of  South  America,  the  settlement,  by 
various  colonies,  of  North  America,  the  most  brilliant  exploits  of  the 
Revolutionary  war,  the  federal  system  in  America,  and  the  universal 
benefits  which  should  attend 

"The  well-based  brotherhood,  the  league  divine." 

The  scene  then   embraces  the  whole  earth — displays  the  future 
<  progress  and  improvement  of  society  in  all  the  arts  and  sciences — 

O-v^^-.y-^--^'--- 


JOEL     BARLOW. 


79 


and  exhibits,  as  a  last  "  view,"  a  general  Congress  from  all  nations 
amicably  assembled  to  establish  the  political  harmony  of  all  mankind. 
The  Genius  thus  cheers  the  heart  of  the  daring  voyager,  at  the  close : 

"  Here,  then,"  said  HESPER,  u  with  a  blissful  smile, 
Behold  the  fruits  of  thy  long  years  of  toil. 
To  yon  bright  borders  of  Atlantic  day 
Thy  swelling  pinions  led  the  trackless  way, 
And  taught  mankind  such  useful  deeds  to  dare, 
To  trace  new  seas,  and  happy  nations  rear ; 
Till  by  fraternal  hands  their  sails  unfurled 
Have  waved  at  last  in  union  o'er  the  world. 

"  Then  let  thy  steadfast  soul  no  more  complain 
Of  dangers  braved  and  griefs  endured  in  vain ; 
Of  courts  insidious,  envy's  poisoned  stings, 
The  loss  of  empire  and  the  frown  of  kings  ; 
While  these  broad  views  thy  better  thoughts  compose 
To  spurn  the  malice  of  insulting  foes  ; 
And  all  the  joys  descending  ages  gain, 
Repay  thy  labors  and  remove  thy  pain !" 

While  every  praise  is  due  to  the  author  for  the  patriotic  spirit  which 
his  poem  displays,  and  while  it  abounds  with  many  passages  of  beauty 
and  eloquence,  and  is  generally  faultless  in  harmonious  versification, 
yet  "  The  Columbiad,"  as  an  epic,  has  been  generally  deemed  a 
failure.  The  author  himself  seems  aware  of  the  chief  difficulty 
attendant  upon  his  design.  He  states  in  his  preface  that  "most  of 
the  events  were  so  .recent,  so  important,  and  so  well  known,  as  to 
render  them  inflexible  to  the  hand  of  fiction  ;  and  that  therefore  the 
poem  could  not  with  propriety  be  modelled  after  that  regular  epic 
form  which  the  more  splendid  works  of  this  kind  have  taken,  and  on 
which  their  success  is  supposed  in  a  great  measure  to  depend." 
Thus  "The  Columbiad"  possesses  no  unity  of  fable — but  its  story, 
if  such  it  may  be  called,  is  a  mere  narration  of  facts  extending 
through  a  long  period  of  years,  and  embracing  the  history  of  the 
whole  continent.  In  a  word,  the  poem  is  but  a  poetical  history. 

"  The  Columbiad'"  was  noticed  by  the  leading  journals  of  the  day, 
both  in  this  country  and  in  Europe  ;  but  generally  with  little  praise. 
While  its  want  of  unity  was  strikingly  apparent,  it  was  also  justly 
deemed  to  be  rather  a  work  of  laborious  art  than  of  imaginative  power, 
and  to  be  sometimes  extravagant  in  its  language.  The  execution  fell 
below  the  conception  ;  but  to  have  conceived  such  a  work,  and 
attempted  it,  not  wholly  without  success,  is  an  honor  beyond  the 
reach  of  many  far  more  popular  writers.  BARLOW  possessed  the 
mind  of  a  sage,  and  the  ear  of  an  accomplished  versifier,  but  not  the 
eye  of  a  poet.  All  his  descriptions  are  general,  and  his  imagery  falls 
into  a  kind  of  habitual  mould,  which  is  quite  too  vague  and  abstract. 
But  the  merit  of  large  views  and  noble  sentiments  belongs  eminently 


to  his  Muse  ;  and,  although  too  much  of  the  Frenchman  of  that  day 
had  found  its  way  into  his  speculations,  yet  they  cannot  be  read 
without  leaving  the  impression  of  a  certain  patriotic  grandeur  of  idea, 
worthy  of  the  first  days  of  our  republic. 

After  the  publication  of  "  The  Columbiad,"  BARLOW  turned  his 
attention  to  another  literary  enterprise  which  he  had  long  projected — 
a  general  history  of  the  United  States,  and  with  a  view  to  this  made 
a  collection  of  historical  documents.  While  engaged  in  these  labors, 
in  1811,  he  was  nominated  by  President  MADISON  minister  plenipo 
tentiary  to  the  court  of  France.  He  accepted  the  appointment,  and 
sailed  immediately  for  Europe.  Upon  his  arrival  in  Paris,  he  made 
every  effort  to  negotiate  a  treaty  of  commerce  and  indemnification 
for  former  spoliations,  but  without  effect — every  obstacle  being 
thrown  in  his  way  by  the  artifice  of  the  French  diplomatists.  In 
the  autumn  of  1812  he  was  invited  by  MARET,  the  Duke  of  Bassano, 
to  meet  the  Emperor  NAPOLEON,  for  a  personal  conference,  at  Wilna, 
in  Poland.  He  started  immediately  with  this  design,  travelling  by 
day  and  night,  in  a  most  inclement  season,  exposed  to  every  severity 
of  a  northern  climate.  His  route  led  him  through  countries  exhaust 
ed  by  the  demands  of  war,  where  many  privations  necessarily  awaited 
the  traveller.  Fatigue,  exposure,  and  the  want  of  accustomed 
comforts,  brought  on  a  fatal  attack  of  inflammation  of  the  lungs,  and 
he  died  at  an  obscure  village  near  Cracow,  in  Poland,  on  the  22d  of 
December,  1812.  Thus  BARLOW  in  the  service  of  his  country  ended 
the  life  which  he  had  early  devoted,  amid  the  greatest  dangers,  to 
her  welfare.  Though  he  had  not  effected  the  object  of  his  mission, 
nor  even  reached  his  place  of  destination,  who  shall  say  that  his  life 
was  not  as  nobly  sacrificed  for  his  country,  as  though  he  had  resigned 
it  upon  a  blood-stained  field  of  fight ! 

While  in  America  the  death  of  ber  distinguished  ambassador  was 
universally  lamented,  in  the  city  of  Paris  the  highest  honors  were 
paid  to  his  memory  as  a  man  of  letters  and  a  celebrated  public 
functionary.  His  epitaph  was  written  by  the  celebrated  HELEN 
MARIA  WILLIAMS,  and  a  eulogy  was  read  by  DUPONT  DE  NEMOURS 
before  the  society  for  the  encouragement  of  national  industry,  and 
during  the  following  year  an  account  of  his  life  and  writings,  in 
quarto  form,  was  published,  accompanied  by  one  canto  of  "  The 
Columbiad,"  translated  into  French  heroic  verse. 

In  private  life,  our  author  was  highly  esteemed  for  his  amiable 
temperament,  and  many  social  excellences.  His  manners  were 
generally  grave  and  dignified,  and  he  possessed  but  little  facility  of 
general  conversation ;  but  with  his  intimate  friends  he  was  easy  and 
familiar,  and  upon  topics  which  deeply  interested  him  he  conversed 
with  much  animation.  His  mind  was  rather  of  a  philosophical  than 
a  poetical  cast,  and  better  adapted  to  those  studies  which  require 


JOEL     BARLOW.  81 

patient  investigation  and  profound  thought  than  to  the  lighter  and 
more  fanciful  labors  of  the  Muse.  Still,  as  a  poet,  he  held  no  humble 
place  among  the  authors  of  his  day ;  while,  as  an  ardent  patriot,  a 
sincere  philanthropist,  a  zealous  republican,  and  a  friend  and  patron 
of  science  and  art,  he  must  ever  stand  among  the  most  distinguished 
men  of  his  age  and  country. 


THE   REIGN   OF   PEACE.* 

These  are  the  views  that  Freedom's  cause  attend ; 
These  shall  endure  till  time  and  nature  end. 
With  Science  crowned,  shall  peace  and  virtue  shine, 
And  blest  Religion  beam  a  light  divine. 
Here  the  pure  Church,  descending  from  her  GOD, 
Shall  fix  on  earth  her  long  and  last  abode  ; 
Zion  arise,  in  radiant  splendor  dressed, 
By  saints  admired,  by  infidels  confessed ; 
Her  opening  courts,  in  dazzling  glory  blaze, 
Her  walls  salvation,  and  her  portals  praise. 

From  each  far  corner  of  th'  extended  earth, 
Her  gathering  sons  shall  claim  their  promised  birth. 
Through  the  drear  wastes,  beneath  the  setting  day, 
Where  prowling  natives  haunt  the  wood  for  prey, 
The  swarthy  millions  lift  their  wondering  eyes, 
And  smile  to  see  the  Gospel  morning  rise : 
Those  who,  through  time,  in  savage  darkness  lay, 
Wake  to  new  light,  and  hail  the  glorious  day ! 
In  those  dark  regions,  those  uncultured  wilds, 
Fresh  blooms  the  rose,  the  peaceful  lily  smiles ; 
On  the  tall  cliffs  unnumbered  Carmels  rise, 
And  in  each  vale  some  beauteous  Sharon  lies. 

From  this  fair  mount  th'  excmded  stone  shall  roll, 
Reach  the  far  East  and  spread  from  pole  to  pole  ; 
From  one  small  stock  shall  countless  nations  rise, 
The  world  replenish  and  adorn  the  skies. 
Earth's  blood-stained  empires,  with  their  guide  the  sun, 
From  orient  climes  their  gradual  progress  run ; 
j 

*  From  "  The  Prospect  of  Peace,"  a  poem  delivered  at  the  public  examina- 
5  tion  of  the  candidates  for  the  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Arts,  July  23,  1778. 


And  circling  far,  reach  every  western  shore, 
Till  earth-born  empires  rise  and  fall  no  more. 
But  see  the  imperial  Guide  from  heaven  descend, 
Whose  beams  are  peace,  whose  kingdom  knows  no  end ; 
From  calm  Vesperia,  through  th'  ethereal  way, 
Back  sweep  the  shades  before  th'  effulgent  day ; 
Through  the  broad  east,  the  brightening  splendor  driven, 
Reverses  nature  arid  illumines  heaven  ; 
Astonished  regions  bless  the  gladdening  sight, 
And  suns  and  systems  own  superior  light. 

As  when  the  asterial  blaze  o'er  Bethlehem  stood, 
Which  marked  the  birth-place  of  th'  incarnate  GOD  ; 
When  eastern  priests  the  heavenly  splendor  viewed, 
And  numerous  crowds  the  wondrous  sign  pursued ; 
So  eastern  kings  shall  view  th'  unclouded  day 
Rise  in  the  west  and  streak  its  golden  way ; 
That  signal  spoke  a  Saviour's  humble  birth, 
This  speaks  his  long  and  glorious  reign  on  earth  ! 

Then  love  shall  rule,  and  innocence  adore; 
Discord  shall  cease,  and  tyrants  be  no  more ; 
Till  yon  bright  orb,  and  those  celestial  spheres, 
In  radiant  circles  mark  a  thousand  years  ; 
Till  the  grand  fiat  burst  the  ethereal  frames, 
Worlds  crush  on  worlds,  and  nature  sink  in  flames ! 
The  Church  elect,  from  smouldering  ruins  rise, 
And  sail  triumphant  through  the  yielding  skies, 
Hailed  by  the  Bridegroom !  to  the  Father  given, 
The  joy  of  angels,  and  the  queen  of  heaven  ! 


HASTY   PUDDING.* 

Ye  Alps  audacious,  through  the  heavens  that  rise, 
To  cramp  the  day  and  hide  me  from  the  skies  ; 
Ye  Gallic  flags,  that,  o'er  their  heights  unfurled, 
Bear  death  to  kings  and  freedom  to  the  world, 
I  sing  not  you.     A  softer  theme  I  choose, 
A  virgin  theme,  unconscious  of  the  Muse, 

*  From  "  Hasty  Pudding,"  a  poem,  in  three  cantos. 


JOEL     BARLOW.  83 

But  fruitful,  rich,  well  suited  to  inspire 
The  purest  frenzy  of  poetic  fire. 

Despise  it  not,  ye  bards  to  terror  steeled, 
Who  hurl  your  thunders  round  the  epic  field ; 
Nor  ye  who  strain  your  midnight  throats  to  sing 
Joys  that  the  vineyard  and  the  still-house  bring; 
Or  on  some  distant  fair  your  notes  employ, 
Arid  speak  of  raptures  that  you  ne'er  enjoy. 
I  sing  the  sweets  I  know,  the  charms  I  feel, 
My  morning  incense,  and  my  evening  meal, — 
The  sweets  of  Hasty  Pudding.     Come,  dear  bowl, 
Glide  o'er  my  palate,  and  inspire  my  soul. 
The  milk  beside  thee,  smoking  from  the  kine, 
Its  substance  mingled,  married  in  with  thine, 
Shall  cool  and  temper  thy  superior  heat, 
And  save  the  pains  of  blowing  while  I  eat. 

O  !  could  the  smooth,  the  emblematic  song 
Flow  like  thy  genial  juices  o'er  my  tongue, 
Could  those  mild  morsels  in  my  numbers  chime, 
And,  as  they  roll  in  substance,  roll  in  rhyme, 
No  more  thy  awkward,  unpoetic  name 
Should  shun  the  muse  or  prejudice  thy  fame  ; 
But,  rising  grateful  to  the  accustomed  ear, 
All  bards  should  catch  it,  and  all  realms  revere ! 
********* 

Dear  Hasty  Pudding,  what  unpromised  joy 
Expands  my  heart,  to  meet  thee  in  Savoy ! 
Doomed  o'er  the  world  through  devious  paths  to  roam, 
Each  clime  my  country,  and  each  house  my  home, 
My  soul  is  soothed,  my  cares  have  found  an  end ; 
I  greet  my  long-lost,  unforgotten  friend. 

For  thee  through  Paris,  that  corrupted  town, 
How  long  in  vain  I  wandered  up  and  down, 
Where  shameless  BACCHUS,  with  his  drenching  hoard, 
Cold  from  his  caves  usurps  the  morning  board. 
London  is  lost  in  smoke  and  steeped  in  tea ; 
No  Yankee  there  can  lisp  the  name  of  thee  ; 
The  uncouth  word,  a  libel  on  the  town, 
Would  call  a  proclamation  from  the  crown. 


84  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

For  climes  oblique,  that  fear  the  sun's  full  rays, 
Chilled  in  their  fogs,  exclude  the  generous  maize : 
A  grain  whose  rich,  luxuriant  growth  requires 
Short,  gentle  showers,  and  bright,  ethereal  fires. 
But  here,  though  distant  from  our  native  shore, 
With  mutual  glee  we  meet  and  laugh  once  more. 
The  same  !  1  know  thee  by  that  yellow  face, 
That  strong  complexion  of  true  Indian  race, 
Which  time  can  never  change,  nor  soil  impair, 
Nor  Alpine  snows,  nor  Turkey's  morbid  air  ; 
For  endless  years,  through  every  mild  domain, 
Where  grows  the  maize,  there  thou  art  sure  to  reign. 
But  man,  more  fickle,  the  bold  license  claims, 
In  different  realms  to  give  thee  different  names. 
Thee  the  soft  nations  round  the  warm  Levant 
Polanta  call ;  the  French,  of  course,  Polante. 
E'en  in  thy  native  regions,  how  I  blush 
To  hear  the  Pennsylvanians  call  thee  Mush ! 
On  Hudson's  banks,  while  men  of  Belgic  spawn 
Insult  and  eat  thee  by  the  name  Suppawn. 
All  spurious  appellations,  void  of  truth  ; 
I  Ve  better  known  thee  from  my  earliest  youth  : 
Thy  name  is  Hasty  Pudding !  thus  our  sires 
Were  wont  to  greet  thee  fuming  from  the  fires  ; 
And  while  they  argued  in  thy  just  defence, 
With  logic  clear  they  thus  explained  the  sense  : 
"  In  haste  the  boiling  cauldron,  o'er  the  blaze, 
Receives  and  cooks  the  ready  powdered  maize ; 
In  haste  't  is  served,  and  then  in  equal  haste, 
With  cooling  milk,  we  make  the  sweet  repast. 
No  carving  to  be  done,  no  knife  to  grate 
The  tender  ear  and  wound  the  stony  plate  ; 
But  the  smooth  spoon,  just  fitted  to  the  lip, 
And  taught  with  art  the  yielding:  mass  to  dip, 
By  frequent  journeys  to  the  bowl  well  stored, 
Performs  the  hasty  honors  of  the  board." 
Such  is  thy  name,  significant  and  clear, 
A  name,  a  sound  to  every  Yankee  dear, 
But  most  to  me,  whose  heart  and  palate  chaste 
Preserve  my  pure,  hereditary  taste. 


JOEL     BARLOW.  85 

There  are  who  strive  to  stamp  with  disrepute 
The  luscious  food,  because  it  feeds  the  brute ; 
In  tropes  of  high-strained  wit,  while  gaudy  prigs 
Compare  thy  nursling  man  to  pampered  pigs ; 
With  sovereign  scorn  I  treat  the  vulgar  jest, 
Nor  fear  to  share  thy  bounties  with  the  beast. 
What  though  the  generous  cow  gives  me  to  quaff 
The  milk  nutritious  ;  am  I  then  a  calf? 
Or  can  the  genius  of  the  noisy  swine, 
Though  nursed  on  pudding,  thence  lay  claim  to  mine  ? 
Sure  the  sweet  song  I  fashion  to  thy  praise, 
Runs  more  melodious  than  the  notes  they  raise. 

My  song,  resounding  in  its  grateful  glee, 
No  merit  claims  :  I  praise  myself  in  thee. 
My  father  loved  thee  through  his  length  of  days  ; 
For  thee  his  fields  were  shaded  o'er  with  maize  ; 
From  thee  what  health,  what  vigor  he  possessed, 
Ten  sturdy  freemen  from  his  loins  attest ; 
Thy  constellation  ruled  my  natal  morn, 
And  all  my  bones  were  made  of  Indian  corn. 
Delicious  grain !  whatever  form  it  take, 
To  roast  or  boil,  to  smother  or  to  bake, 
In  every  dish  't  is  welcome  still  to  me, 
But  most,  my  Hasty  Pudding,  most  in  thee. 


COLUMBUS.* 

I  sing  the  mariner  who  first  unfurled 
An  eastern  banner  o'er  the  western  world, 
And  taught  mankind  where  future  empires  lay 
In  these  fair  confines  of  descending  day  ; 
Who  swayed  a  moment,  with  vicarious  power, 
Iberia's  sceptre  on  the  new-found  shore, 
Then  saw  the  paths  his  virtuous  steps  had  trod 
Pursued  by  avarice  and  defiled  with  blood, 
The  tribes  he  fostered  with  paternal  toil 
Snatched  from  his  hand,  and  slaughtered  for  their  spoil. 

*  The  opening  of  "  The  Columbiad." 


86  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Slaves,  kings,  adventurers,  envious  of  his  name, 
Enjoyed  his  labors  and  purloined  his  fame, 
And  gave  the  Viceroy,  from  his  high  seat  hurled, 
Chains  for  a  crown,  a  prison  for  a  world. 

Long  overwhelmed  in  woes,  and  sickening  there, 
He  met  the  slow,  still  march  of  black  despair, 
Sought  the  last  refuge  from  his  hopeless  doom, 
And  wished  from  thankless  men  a  peaceful  tomb  : 
Till  visioned  ages,  opening  on  his  eyes, 
Cheered  his  sad  soul,  and  bade  new  nations  rise ; 
He  saw  the  Atlantic  heaven  with  light  o'ercast, 
And  Freedom  crown  his  glorious  work  at  last. 

Almighty  Freedom !  give  my  venturous  song 
The  force,  the  charm  that  to  thy  voice  belong  ; 
'T  is  thine  to  shape  my  course,  to  light  my  way, 
To  nerve  my  country  with  the  patriot  lay ; 
To  teach  all  men  where  all  their  interest  lies, 
How  rulers  may  be  just  and  nations  wise  : 
Strong  in  thy  strength  1  bend  no  suppliant  knee, 
Invoke  no  miracle,  no  Muse  but  thee. 

Night  held  on  old  Castile  her  silent  reign, 
Her  half-orbed  moon  declining  to  the  main  ; 
O'er  Valladolid's  regal  turrets  hazed 
The  drizzly  fogs  from  dull  Pisuerga  raised  ; 
Whose  hovering  sheets,  along  the  welkin  driven, 
Thinned  the  pale  stars,  and  shut  the  eye  from  heaven. 
Cold-hearted  FERDINAND  his  pillow  prest, 
Nor  dreamed  of  those  his  mandates  robbed  of  rest, 
Of  him  who  gemmed  his  crown,  who  stretched  his  reign 
To  realms  that  weighed  the  tenfold  poise  of  Spain  ; 
Who  now  beneath  his  tower  indungeoned  lies, 
Sweats  the  chill  sod  and  breathes  inclement  skies. 

His  feverish  pulse,  slow  laboring  through  his  frame, 
Feeds  with  scant  force  its  fast  expiring  flame  ; 
A  far  dim  watch-lamp's  thrice  reflected  beam 
Throws  through  his  grates  a  mist-encumbered  gleam, 
Paints  the  dun  vapors  that  the  cell  invade, 
And  fills  with  spectred  forms  the  midnight  shade  ; 


When  from  a  visionary,  short  repose, 

That  nursed  new  cares  and  tempered  keener  woes, 

COLUMBUS  woke,  and  to  the  walls  addrest 

The  deep-felt  sorrows  bursting  from  his  breast ! 


VISIT   OF  HESPER.* 

Thus  mourned  the  hapless  man :  a  thundering  sound        > 
Rolled  through  the  shuddering  walls  and  shook  the  ground ; 
O'er  all  the  dungeon,  where  black  arches  bend, 
The  roofs  unfold,  and  streams  of  light  descend ; 
The  growing  splendor  fills  the  astonished  room, 
And  gales  ethereal  breathe  a  glad  perfume. 
Robed  in  the  radiance,  moves  a  form  serene, 
Of  human  structure,  but  of  heavenly  mien  ; 
Near  to  the  prisoner's  couch  he  takes  his  stand, 
And  waves,  in  sign  of  peace,  his  holy  hand. 
Tall  rose  his  stature,  youth's  endearing  grace 
Adorned  his  limbs  and  brightened  in  his  face  ; 
Loose  o'er  his  locks  the  star  of  evening  hung, 
And  sounds  melodious  moved  his  cheerful  tongue  : 

Rise,  trembling  chief,  to  scenes  of  rapture  rise, 
This  voice  awaits  thee  from  the  western  skies  ; 
Indulge  no  longer  that  desponding  strain, 
Nor  count  thy  toils,  nor  deem  thy  virtues  vain. 
Thou  seest  in  me  the  guardian  Power  who  keeps 
The  new-found  .world  that  skirts  Atlantic  deeps  ; 
HESPER  my  name  ;  my  seat  the  brightest  throne 
In  night's  whole  heaven  ;  my  sire  the  living  sun. 
My  brother  ATLAS  with  his  name  divine 
Stamped  the  wild  wave  ;  the  solid  coast  is  mine. 
This  hand,  which  formed,  and  in  the  tides  of  time 
Laves  and  improves  the  meliorating  clime, 
Which  taught  thy  prow  to  cleave  the  trackless  way, 
And  hailed  thee  first  in  occidental  day, 
To  all  thy  worth  shall  vindicate  thy  claim, 
And  raise  up  nations  to  revere  thy  name. 

*  From  the  first  book  of  "  The  Columbiad." 


In  this  dark  age  though  blinded  faction  sways, 
And  wealth  and  conquest  gain  the  palm  of  praise  ; 
Awed  into  slaves  while  grovelling  millions  groan, 
And  blood-stained  steps  lead  upward  to  a  throne  ; 
Far  other  wreaths  thy  virtuous  temples  twine, 
Far  nobler  triumphs  crown  a  life  like  thine  ; 
Thine  be  the  joys  that  minds  immortal  grace, 
As  thine  the  deeds  that  bless  a  kindred  race. 
Now  raise  thy  sorrowed  soul  to  views  more  bright, 
The  visioned  ages  rushing  on  thy  sight ; 
Worlds  beyond  worlds  shall  bring  to  light  their  stores, 
Time,  nature,  science,  blend  their  utmost  powers, 
To  show  concentred  in  one  blaze  of  fame, 
The  un gathered  glories  that  await  thy  name. 

As  that  great  seer,  whose  animating  rod 
Taught  JACOB'S  sons  their  wonder-working  GOD, 
Who  led  through  dreary  wastes  the  murmuring  band, 
And  reached  the  confines  of  their  promised  land, 
Oppressed  with  years,  from  Pisgah's  towering  height, 
On  fruitful  Canaan  feasted  long  his  sight ; 
The  bliss  of  unborn  nations  warmed  his  breast, 
Repaid  his  toils  and  soothed  his  soul  to  rest ; 
Thus  o'er  thy  subject  wave  shalt  thou  behold 
Far  happier  realms  their  future  charms  unfold ; 
In  nobler  pomp  another  Pisgah  rise, 
Beneath  whose  foot  thy  new-found  Canaan  lies  ; 
There,  rapt  in  vision,  hail  my  favorite  clime, 
And  taste  the  blessings  of  remotest  time. 

So  HESPER  spoke  ;  COLUMBUS  raised  his  head  ; 
His  chains  dropt  off;  the  cave,  the  castle  fled. 
Forth  walked  the  pair  ;  when  steep  before  them  stood, 
Slope  from  the  town,  a  heaven-illumined  road ; 
That  through  disparting  shades  arose  on  high, 
Reached  o'er  the  hills,  and  lengthened  up  the  sky, 
Showed  a  clear  summit,  rich  with  rising  flowers, 
That  breathe  their  odors  through  celestial  bowers. 
O'er  the  proud  Pyrenees  it  looks  sublime, 
Subjects  the  Alps,  and  levels  Europe's  clime ; 
Spain,  lessening  to  a  chart,  beneath  it  swims, 
And  shrouds  her  dungeons  in  the  void  she  dims. 


JOEL     BARLOW. 


89 


SURRENDER   OF   CORNWALLIS.* 

Now  grateful  truce  suspends  the  burning  war, 
And  groans  and  shouts  promiscuous  load  the  air ; 
When  the  tired  Britons,  where  the  smokes  decay, 
Quit  their  strong  station,  and  resign  the  day. 
Slow  files  along  the  immeasurable  train, 
Thousands  on  thousands  redden  all  the  plain, 
Furl  their  torn  bandrols,  all  their  plunder  yield, 
And  pile  their  muskets  on  the  battle  field. 
Their  wide  auxiliar  nations  swell  the  crowd, 
And  the  cooped  navies,  from  the  neighboring  flood, 
Repeat  surrendering  signals,  and  obey 
The  landmen's  fate  on  this  concluding  day. 

CORNWALLIS  first,  their  late  all-conquering  lord, 
Bears  to  the  victor-chief  his  conquered  sword, 
Presents  the  burnished  hilt,  and  yields  with  pain 
The  gift  of  kings,  here  brandished  long  in  vain. 
Then  bow  their  hundred  banners,  trailing  far 
Their  wearied  wings  from  all  the  skirts  of  war. 
Battalioned  infantry  and  squadroned  horse 
Dash  the  silk  tassel  and  the  golden  torse  ; 
Flags  from  the  forts  and  ensigns  from  the  fleet 
Roll  in  the  dust,  and  at  Columbia's  feet 
Prostrate  the  pride  of  thrones  ;  they  firm  the  base 
Of  Freedom's  temple,  while  her  arms  they  grace. 
Here  Albion's  crimson  Cross  the  soil  o'erspreads, 
Her  Lion  crouches  and  her  Thistle  fades ; 
Indignant  Erin  rues  her  trampled  Lyre, 
Brunswick's  pale  Steed  forgets  his  foamy  fire, 
Proud  Hessia's  Castle  lies  in  dust  o'erthrown, 
And  venal  Anspach  quits  her  broken  Crown. 

Long  trains  of  wheeled  artillery  shade  the  shore, 
Quench  their  blue  matches  and  forget  to  roar ; 
Along  the  encumbered  plain,  thick  planted  rise 
High  stacks  of  muskets  glittering  to  the  skies, 
Numerous  and  vast.     As  when  the  toiling  swains 
Heap  their  whole  harvest  on  the  stubby  plains, 

*  From  the  seventh  book  of  "  The  Columbiad." 


POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 


Gerb  after  gerb  the  bearded  shock  expands, 

Shocks,  ranged  in  rows,  hill  high  the  burdened  lands  ; 

The  joyous  master  numbers  all  the  piles, 

And  o'er  his  well-earned  crop  complacent  smiles : 

Such  growing  heaps  this  iron  harvest  yield, 

So  tread  the  victors  this  their  final  field. 

Triumphant  WASHINGTON,  with  brow  serene, 
Regards  unmoved  the  exhilarating  scene, 
Weighs  in  his  balanced  thought  the  silent  grief 
That  sinks  the  bosom  of  the  fallen  chief, 
With  all  the  joy  that  laurel  crowns  bestow, 
A  world  re-conquered  and  a  vanquished  foe. 
Thus  through  extremes  of  life,  in  every  state, 
Shines  the  clear  soul,  beyond  all  fortune  great ; 
While  smaller  minds,  the  dupes  of  fickle  chance, 
Slight  woes  o'erwhelm,  and  sudden  joys  entrance. 
So  the  full  sun,  through  all  the  changing  sky, 
Nor  blasts  nor  overpowers  the  naked  eye  ; 
Though  transient  splendors,  borrowed  from  his  light, 
Glance  on  the  mirror  and  destroy  the  sight. 

He  bids  brave  LINCOLN  guide  with  modest  air 
The  last  glad  triumph  of  the  finished  war  ; 
Who  sees,  once  more,  two  armies  shade  one  plain. 
The  mighty  victors  and  the  captive  train. 


POETS   OF   AMERICA.* 

To  equal  fame  ascends  thy  tuneful  throng, 
The  boast  of  genius  and  the  pride  of  song ; 
Caught  from  the  cast  of  every  age  and  clime, 
Their  lays  shall  triumph  o'er  the  lapse  of  time. 

With  lynx-eyed  glance  through  nature  far  to  pierce, 
With  all  the  powers  and  every  charm  of  verse, 
Each  science  opening  in  his  ample  mind, 
His  fancy  glowing  and  his  taste  refined, 
See  TRUMBULL  lead  the  train.     His  skillful  hand 
Hurls  the  keen  darts  of  satire  round  the  land. 

*  From  the  eighth  book  of  "  The  Columbiad." 


Pride,  knavery,  dulness,  feel  his  mortal  stings, 
And  listening  Virtue  triumphs  while  he  sings ; 
Britain's  foiled  sons,  victorious  now  no  more, 
In  guilt  retiring  from  the  wasted  shore, 
Strive  their  curst  cruelties  to  hide  in  vain ; 
The  world  resounds  them  in  his  deathless  strain. 

On  wings  of  faith  to  elevate  the  soul 
Beyond  the  bourne  of  earth's  benighted  pole, 
For  DWIGHT'S  high  harp  the  epic  Muse  sublime 
Hails  her  new  empire  in  the  western  clime. 
Tuned  from  the  tones  by  seers  seraphic  sung, 
Heaven  in  his  eye  and  rapture  on  his  tongue, 
His  voice  revives  old  Canaan's  promised  land, 
The  long-fought  fields  of  JACOB'S  chosen  band. 
In  HANNIEL'S  fate  proud  faction  finds  its  doom, 
Ai's  midnight  flames  light  nations  to  their  tomb ; 
In  visions  bright  supernal  joys  are  given, 
And  all  the  dark  futurities  of  heaven. 

While  Freedom's  cause  his  patriot  bosom  warms, 
In  counsel  sage,  nor  inexpert  in  arms, 
See  HUMPHREYS  glorious  from  the  field  retire, 
Sheathe  the  glad  sword  and  string  the  soothing  lyre  ; 
That  lyre  which  erst,  in  hours  of  dark  despair, 
Roused  the  sad  realms  to  finish  well  the  war. 
O'er  fallen  friends,  with  all  the  strength  of  woe, 
Fraternal  sighs  in  his  strong  numbers  flow ; 
His  country's  wrongs,  her  duties,  dangers,  praise, 
Fire  his  full  soul  and  animate  his  lays : 
Wisdom  and  war  with  equal  joy  shall  own 
So  fond  a  votary  and  so  brave  a  son. 


THE   BABYLONIAN   CAPTIVITY. 

Paraphrase  of  the  one  hundred  and  thirty-seventh  Psalm. 

Along  the  banks  where  Babel's  current  flows, 
Our  captive  bands  in  deep  despondence  strayed, 

While  Zion's  fall  in  sad  remembrance  rose, 

Her  friends,  her  children,  mingled  with  the  dead. 


r 

\   92  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

"•-^"N-''~^"^-'~v-x~x~'~x-'"N-''v-^^ 

The  tuneless  harp,  that  once  with  joy  we  strung, 
When  praise  employed  and  mirth  inspired  the  lay, 

In  mournful  silence  on  the  willows  hung ; 
And  growing  grief  prolonged  the  tedious  day. 

The  barbarous  tyrants,  to  increase  the  woe, 
With  taunting  smiles  a  song  of  Zion  claim, 

Bid  sacred  praise  in  strains  melodious  flow, 

While  they  blaspheme  the  great  JEHOVAH'S  name. 

But  how,  in  heathen  chains  and  lands  unknown, 
Shall  ISRAEL'S  sons  a  song  of  Zion  raise  ? 

O  hapless  Salem  !  GOD'S  terrestrial  throne  ! 
Thou  land  of  glory,  sacred  mount  of  praise  ! 

If  e'er  my  memory  lose  thy  lovely  name, 
If  my  cold  heart  neglect  my  kindred  race, 

Let  dire  destruction  seize  this  guilty  frame  ; 

My  hand  shall  perish  and  my  voice  shall  cease ! 

Yet  shall  the  LORD,  who  hears  when  Zion  calls, 
O'ertake  her  foes  with  terror  and  dismay, 

His  arm  avenge  her  desolated  walls, 
And  raise  her  children  to  eternal  day. 


RICHARD     ALSOP.  93 


RICHARD   ALSOP. 

[Born  1761.     Died  1815.] 

FOR  the  following  sketch  of  Mr.  ALSOP,  we  are  indebted  to  a 
gentleman  who  enjoyed  his  intimate  acquaintance,  and  was  associated 
with  him  in  many  of  his  literary  labors.  This  circumstance,  while 
it  secures  the  authenticity  of  the  account,  will  also  confer  upon  it  an 
additional  value  in  the  eyes  of  all  who  regard  with  interest  the  history 
of  our  earlier  literature. 

"  RICHARD  ALSOP  was  born  at  Middletown,  in  the  month  of 
January,  1761.  His  father,  who  had  been  for  many  years  exten 
sively  engaged  in  mercantile  business,  died  early  in  the  year  1776, 
leaving  a  widow  with  eight  children,  of  whom  the  subject  of  this 
memoir  was  the  eldest.  From  early  childhood  he  discovered  a 
strong  taste  for  literature,  in  which  he  was  indulged  by  his  parents 
as  far  as  the  times  would  admit.  When  young  he  entered  Yale 
College ;  but  relinquished  his  studies  in  that  institution,  without 
taking  a  degree.  Having  acquired  a  good  degree  of  knowledge  of 
Latin  and  Greek,  he  devoted  much  of  his  time  for  a  number  of  years 
afterward,  to  the  classical  literature  of  England,  and  to  the  study  of 
several  of  the  modern  languages  of  Europe,  particularly  to  the 
French,  Spanish  and  Italian,  with  which  he  became  intimately 
acquainted.  Early  in  life  he  manifested  a  strong  attachment  to 
poetry,  and  frequently  gave  proofs  of  possessing  decided  poetical 
genius  and  talent.  Amo'ng  his  early  productions,  was  a  poem  under 
the  title  of '  The  Charms  of  Fancy,'  which  extended  through  several 
cantos,  and  was  a  work  of  much  poetical  merit,  exhibiting  not  only 
an  uncommon  degree  of  skill  in  versification,  but  striking  evidence 
of  that  faculty  of  the  mind  from  which  its  title  was  derived.  This 
poem  has  never  been  published.  At  a  later  period  of  his  life,  he 
commenced  a  regular  epic,  entitled  '  The  Conquest  of  Scandinavia.' 
Although  he  made  considerable  progress  in  this  work,  it  was  not 
finished.  Specimens  of  it  are  contained  in  a  volume  published  in 
this  state,  in  the  year  1793,  and  under  the  superintendence  of  his 
friend,  Dr.  ELIHU  H.  SMITH,  then  of  Litchfield,  afterward  of  the 
city  of  New  York.  Mr.  ALSOP  possessed  an  extensive  knowledge 
of  the  Scandinavian  mythology  ;  and  had  the  poem  been  completed, 
it  would  have  proved  highly  creditable  to  his  learning,  as  well  as  his 
poetical  talents.  Several  others  of  his  poems  were  inserted  in  the 


same  volume.  In  1808,  he  published  '  The  Fairy,  of  the  Enchanted 
Lake,'  from  BERNI'S  'Orlando  Inamorato,'  and  in  the  year  1791, 
the  first  number  of  '  The  Echo '  *  was  printed  at, Hartford,  and  was 
continued,  at  intervals,  for  a  number  of  years. 

"  It  is  difficult  to  convey  to  a  stranger  a  joist  idea  of  Mr.  ALSOP'S 
character,  especially  within  the  circumscribed  limits  of  a  brief 
biographical  notice.  His  temper,  though  ardent,  \vas  amiable  and 
affectionate ;  his  manners  were  simple  and  unaffected ;  and  his 
attachment  to  his  friends  and  connections  strong  and  sincere.  He  . 
possessed  a  lively  imagination,  and  an  unbounded  fund  of  playful 
humor,  the  extent  and  force  of  which  none  but  his  intimate  associates 
can  realize.  In  ludicrous  poetical  composition  he  excelled,  particu 
larly  in  the  grave  burlesque,  proofs  of  which  may  be  found  in  '  The 
Echo,'  as  well  as  in  some  of -his  other  productions. 

"  In  1800,  Mr.  ALSOP  published  a  poem  on  the  death  of  General 
WASHINGTON,  which  contained  about  five  hundred  lines,  and  was 
inscribed  to  Mrs.  WASHINGTON.  This  was  the  largest  of  his  pub 
lished  productions.  Of  its  claim  to  merit  for  poetical  talent,  and 
peculiar  adaptation  to  the  subject,  there  is  probably  little  room  for  a 
difference  of  opinion  among  persons  of  judgment  and  taste. 

"Mr.  ALSOP  was  engaged  in  many  of  the  political  publications 
which  appeared  in  newspapers  of  Hartford,  particularly  during  the 
administrations  of  General  WASHINGTON  and  the  elder  Mr.  ADAMS. 
Among  these  were  'The  Political  Green-House'  and  'The  Echo.' 
The  former  was  somewhat  upon  the  model  of  what  are  commonly 
called  New  Year's  Verses ;  the  latter  was  upon  a  plan  new  and 
original.  It  was  extensively  circulated  through  the  newspapers  of 

*  As  various  incorrect  accounts  of  the  origin  and  writers  of  "  The  Echo  " 
have  been  in  circulation,  we  are  happy  to  perform  an  act  of  justice  by  inserting 
the  following  statement,  which  we  have  obtained  from  the  sole  survivor  of 
those  concerned  in  its  authorship,  and  Who  alone  possesses  the  requisite 
knowledge  of  the  facts.— EDITOR. 

"The  first  number  of 'The  Echo'  appeared  in  'The  American  Mercury,'  at 
Hartford,  in  August,  1791,  It  was  written  at  Middletown,  by  RICHARD  ALSOP 
and  THEODORE  DWIGHT.  The  authors,  at  the  time  of  writing  it,  had  no 
expectation  of  its  being  published.  Their  sole  object  was  to  amuse  themselves 
and  a  few  of  their  personal  friends.  The  general  account  of  its  origin  and 
design  is  given  in  the  preface  to  the  volume,  in  which  the  numbers  were  after 
ward  collected  and  published  in  New  York.  With  the  exception  of  a  few 
lines  written  by  Drs.  MASON  F.  COGSWELL  and  ELIHU  H.  SMITH,  and  a  part 
of  one  or,  two  numbers  by  Dr.  LEMUEL  HOPKINS,  the  entire  work  was  the 
production  of  Messrs.  ALSOP  and  DWIGHT.  Judge  TRUMBULL  never  wrote  a 
line  in  it.  Of  course  the  accounts  of  the  origin  and  authorship  of  the  work 
which  have  heretofore  been  published,  are,  in  almost  every  essential  particular, 

^  incorrect.     'The  Political  Green-House'  was  written  by'  ALSOP,   HOPKINS 

•J   and  DWIGHT,  in  unequal  proportions." 


ALSOP.  95 

the  country,   and  was  supposed,   at  the  time,  to  have  produced 
considerable  effect  upon  the  public  mind. 

"  Mr.  ALSOP  died  suddenly  at  Flatbush,  on  Long  Island,  in  August, 
1815,  of  a  disease  of  the  heart..  Many  of  his  poetical  productions 
have  never  been  published.  Enough,  however,  have  appeared,  to 
entitle  him  to  a  place  among  the  most  distinguished  poets  of  our 
country." 


EGALITE  — DUG   D'ORLEANS.* 

Hail,  chief!  renowned  for  deeds  of  blackest  shame, 
D'ORLEANS,  EGALITE,  whate'er  thy  name, 
Whose  head  and  heart  with  equal  lustre  shine, 
And  in  thyself  both  fool  and  villain  join  ! 
With  admiration  and  surprise  we  see 
One  vast  monopoly  of  vice  in  thee, 
In  thee,  whose  changeful  life  alone  has  stood 
Unchanged,  in  constant  enmity  to  good, 
While  ne'er  one  solitary  virtue  shined, 
To  light  the  Memphian  darkness  of  thy  mind. 
See  young  LAM  BELLE,  in  closest  ties  allied, 
By  thee  corrupted,  ruined  and  destroyed ; 
By  darkest  plots  his  lovely  wife  pursued, 
And  stripped  of  wealth  to  pay  thy  ruffian  brood, 
The  vile  DE  GENLIS  and  his  atheist  clan, 
Sworn  foes  to  GOD  and  direst  pests  of  man. 
Yet  still  the  glorious  work  'imperfect  lay, 
Nor  less  than  blood  thy  pious  zeal  could  stay ; 
By  thee  accused  the  hapless  Princess  dies, 
To  human  fiends  a  wretched  sacrifice — 
While  that  loved  form  and  that  enchanting  face, 
Where  peerless  beauty  shone  with  every  grace, 
The  brutal  throng  in  savage  fury  tear, 
And  shouts  of  horror  fill  the  tortured  air. 
Proceed,  great  man !  on  murder  murder  pour. 
Till  satiate  cruelty  is  gorged  with  gore, 

*  From  "  Echo  No.  XII."  The  fulfilment  of  the  prophecy  with  which  these 
spirited  lines  conclude,  like  that  at  the  close  of  the  following  selection  also, 
has  become  a  fact  in  history. 


96  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

And  the  poor  remnant  of  what  worth  remains, 
Is  exiled  far  from  Gallia's  hapless  plains. 
But  joy,  ye  race  oppressed !  ere  long  the  day 
Shall  come  when  guilt  a  reckoning  dire  shall  pay ; 
When,  the  full  measure  of  his  crimes  complete, 
Abhorred  EGALITE  his  doom  shall  meet ; 
And  that  deludted  throng  by  him  misled, 
Shall  wreak  their  vengeance  on  his  guilty  head. 


NAPOLEON.* 

Behold  the  chief,  whose  mighty  name 
With  glory  fills  the  trump  of  fame  ! 
Before  whose  genius,  smote  with  dread, 
The  veteran  hosts  of  Austria  fled, 
Th'  imperial  Eagle  drooped  forlorn, 
His  plumage  soiled,  his  pinions  torn, 
And  Conquest's  self,  'mid  fields  of  blood, 
Attendant  on  his  footsteps  trode — 
To  gain  new  palms  on  Afric's  coast, 
Lead  o'er  the  deep  a  chosen  host. 
And  lo  !  at  first,  with  favoring  ray, 
Kind  Fortune  lights  him  on  his  way ; 
Those  ramparts,  Europe's  ancient  pride, 
W'hich  erst  the  Turkish  power  defied, 
By  stratagem  and  force  compelled, 
To  him  the  towers  of  Malta  yield. 
Victorious,  thence  to  Egypt's  coast 
He  leads  his  fell  marauding  host ; 
In  vain  the  Turks  oppose  their  force, 
To  stop  the  fierce  invader's  course, 
Nor  Alexandria's  time-worn  towers, 
Nor  Cairo  long  resist  his  powers  : 
By  desperate  courage  fierce  impelled, 
The  Mameluke  squadrons  tempt  the  field  ; 

*  From  "  The  Political  Green- House,"  for  the  year  1798. 


RICHARD     ALSOP. 

But  vain  the  bold,  undaunted  band 
In  close  and  furious  contest  stand ; 
Against  the  column's  solid  force, 
In  vain  impel  their  scattered  horse, 
And  wake  anew,  by  deeds  of  fame, 
The  ancient  glories  of  their  name  : 
Foiled,  slain  j  dispersed,  the  routed  train 
In  wild  confusion  quit  the  plain. 

But  lo  !  the  ever-varying  queen, 
Delusive  Fortune,  shifts  the  scene : 
To  crush  the  towering  pride  of  France, 
Behold  brave  NELSON  firm  advance  ! 
Beneath  his  rule,  in  close  array, 
The  Britons  plough  the  watery  way ; 
To  famed  Rosetta  bends  his  course, 
Where  deemed  secure  from  hostile  force, 
The  fleet  superior  of  the  foe 
A  lengthened  line  of  battle  show. 
Lo !  from  the  west,  the  setting  ray 
Slopes  the  long  shades  of  parting  day ! 
The  fight  begins  ; — the  cannon's  roar 
In  doubling  echoes  rends  the  shore ; 
Wide  o'er  the  scene  blue  clouds  arise, 
And  curl  in  volumes  to  the  skies, 
While  momentary  flashes  spread 
Their  fleecy  folds  with  fiery  red. 
More  desperate  still  the  battle  glows 
As  night  around  its  horrors  throws. 
Long  lines  of  fire  enkindling  sweep 
A  bluish  splendor  o'er  the  deep, 
Then  swells  the  dread  displosive  sound, 
While  deeper  darkness  closes  round. 
Yon  sable  volume,  rolled  on  high, 
With  thicker  gloom  obscures  the  sky ; 
And  lo  !  emerging  from  its  womb, 
What  sudden  flames  the  shade  illume ! 
Evolving  slow  the  clouds  retire, 
Red  glows  the  wide-extended  fire, 
And  rears  sublime  a  column  white, 
High  as  the  eagle  wings  his  flight, 


98 


POETS    OF    CONNECTICUT. 


Till  veiled  mid  clouds  of  pitchy  hue, 
It  shrinks  diminished  from  the  view ; 
Wide  o'er  the  seas  the  splendors  play, 
In  radiance  like  the  blaze  of  day  ; 
With  reflex  beams  the  waves  are  bright, 
Bichierrian  heights  emerge  in  light, 
While  o'er  the  distant  hills  and  dales, 
Night's  deepest  gloom  the  landscape  veils. 
At  length,  disparting,  from  the  waves 
The  giant  ship  concussive  heaves  ; 
Still  wider  spreads  the  glare  of  light, 
With  momentary  splendor  bright, 
Far  heard,  the  wild,  tremendous  sound 
In  dire  explosion  roars  around ; 
The  lifted  surges  wide  expand, 
And  dash  with  refluent  waves  the  strand  ; 
The  Nile  receding  seeks  its  head, 
And  pale  Rosetta  shakes  with  dread ; 
Huge  burning  beams  are  hurled  on  high, 
And  masts  and  yards  obscure  the  sky ; 
Burnt,  mangled,  torn,  and  dyed  in  blood, 
The  Gallic  sailors  strew  the  flood, 
While  the  rent  hulk,  with  groaning  sound, 
Sinks  plunging,  whirled  in  eddies  round. 
'T  is  silence  all : — the  cannon's  roar 
In  deafening  thunder  rings  no  more ; 
No  light  is  seen  to  mark  the  gloom, 
Still  as  the  stillness  of  the  tomb. 
Such  the  dire  gloom,  in  days  of  yore, 
That  darkened  Egypt's  fated  shore, 
When  plagues  pursued  the  prophet's  word, 
And  terror  paled  her  haughty  lord. 
Not  long  the  pause  ;  for  lo !  once  more 
Resounds  the  loud  terrific  roar ; 
Flash  answering  flash,  alternate  plays, 
And  lightens  ocean  with  its  rays. 
But  when  the  morning's  golden  eye 
Beheld  the  dusky  shadows  fly, 
Wild  Havoc  frowning  o'er  the  flood, 
His  giant  form  exulting  showed ; 


RICHARD     ALSOP. 

-^-^^^^^-^^^^^X^-^^-^^^-s^-%_^N^^^-N^-X>- 

The  Gallic  navy  foiled  and  torn, 
With  pale  discomfiture  forlorn, 
Wide  scattered  o'er  Rosetta's  bay, 
In  prostrate  ruin  helpless  lay : 
Two  shattered  fly  ;  the  rest  remain 
To  wear  the  valiant  victor's  chain  ; 
While  o'er  the  wreck-obstructed  tide 
The  British  ships  in  triumph  ride. 
All-anxious,  from  Aboukir's  height, 
The  Gallic  leaders  view  the  fight, 
And  desperate  see  their  fleet  compelled 
To  force  inferior  far  to  yield. 
So  when,  by  night,  o'er  Memphis  trod, 
The  avenging  minister  of  GOD, 
At  morn  pale  Egypt  viewed  with  dread, 
Her  first-born  numbered  with  the  dead. 

Ambitious  chief!  in  dust  laid  low, 
Behold  the  honors  of  thy  brow  ; 
The  laurels  culled  on  Egypt's  shore 
Shall  wither  ere  the  day  be  o'er  ; 
Thy  armies  thinned,  reduced  thy  force, 
Fell  Ruin  waits  thy  onward  course  ; 
While  of  thy  country's  aid  bereft, 
No  safety  but  in  flight  is  left ; 
And  victory's  self  but  seals  thy  doom, 
And  brings  thee  nearer  to  the  tomb. 
I  see  destruction  wing  her  way, 
I  see  the  eagles  mark  their  prey, 
Where  pent  in  Cairo's  putrid  wall, 
In  heaps  thy  dying  soldiers  fall ; 
Or,  mid  the  desert's  burning  waste, 
Smote  by  the  Samiel's  fiery  blast ; 
Or  pressed  by  fierce  Arabian  bands, 
With  thirst  they  perish  on  the  sands. 
While  BONAPARTE'S  dreaded  name 
Shall  shine  a  beacon's  warning  flame, 
To  point  to  times  of  future  date, 
Unprincipled  ambition's  fate. 


99 


100  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

^^-^^^>-^>^-N^-N^^^%^-S^-\_r-X-X-V^^ ^^'V-'-N-'-X^-^'-S^-N^N^'-^-X^^ 

WASHINGTON.* 

Why  on  this  day,  when  erst  in  smiles  arrayed, 
Each  cheerful  mien  the  signs  of  joy  displayed; 
When  the  gay  pomp  of  military  show 
With  sprightly  ardor  gave  each  breast  to  glow ; 
When  the  scarred  veteran,  filled  with  honest  pride, 
Resumed  his  war-worn  garb,  and  martial  stride  ; 
When  feeble  age  rekindling  vigor  knew, 
And  sportive  childhood  still  more  frolic  grew ; 
With  added  charms  when  beauty  smiled  serene, 
Prepared  to  grace  the  festive  birth-night  scene ; 
Why  o'er  the  city  spreads  this  death-like  gloom  ? 
Why  round  displayed  the  insignia  of  the  tomb  ? 
Why  sounds  yon  passing  knell  in  accents  slow, 
And  strings  each  heart  in  unison  of  woe  ? 
Why  o'er  those  martial  bands  gay  standards  wave 
In  mournful  pomp  the  colors  of  the  grave  ? 
Why  droops  yon  veteran  soldier's  hoary  head, 
His  honest  pride,  his  wonted  ardor  fled ! 
Why  heaves  the  breast  of  Age  that  torturing  sigh  ? 
Why  marked  with  gloom  is  Childhood's  frolic  eye ! 
Why  does  the  fair  absorbed  in  grief  appear, 
As  down  her  cheek  slow  steals  th'  unbidden  tear  ? 
********* 

Illustrious  shade !  the  muse  would  fain  essay 
Her  humble  tribute  to  thy  worth  to  pay ; 
With  trembling  hand  amid  thy  laurels  twine 
A  wreath  of  roses  round  thy  hallowed  shrine  ; 
Fain  would  her  lyre  to  notes  sublimer  raise, 
To  sing  thy  virtues,  and  record  thy  praise ; 
Yet  midst  thy  various  worth,  thy  talents  rare, 
The  brilliant  deeds  that  mark  thy  great  career, 
Where  shall  she  fix  ?  amidst  that  field  of  light, 

The  splendid  how  select  when  all  is  bright  ? 

********* 

Exalted  chief!  in  thy  superior  mind, 
What  vast  resource,  what  various  talents  joined ! 


*  From  a  poem  "  To  the  Memory  of  WASHINGTON,  adapted  to  the  22d  of  > 
February,  1800,"  and  inscribed  to  Mrs.  WASHINGTON. 


, >-^-TNX^>-^-^N-^*^^-^N^^-^N-^N^^-^^-^^-^N^        "J 

RICHARD     ALSOP.  101     S 

^ms~^^^_s^-**-s~*^~>~r^^^^-*~s-^^  ( 

Tempered  with  social  virtue's  milder  rays, 

There  patriot  worth  diffused  a  purer  blaze  :  ( 

Formed  to  command  respect,  esteem  inspire,  < 

Midst  statesmen  grave,  or  midst  the  social  choir  ;  < 

With  equal  skill  the  sword  or  pen  to  wield,  \ 

In  council  great,  unequalled  in  the  field ;  J 

Mid  glittering  courts  or  rural  walks  to  please,  \ 

Polite  with  grandeur,  dignified  with  ease ; 

Before  the  splendors  of  thy  high  renown,  .< 

How  fade  the  glow-worm  lustres  of  a  crown ;  I 

How  sink  diminished,  in  that  radiance  lost,  X 

The  glare  of  conquest,  and  of  power  the  boast !  <J 

Let  Greece  her  ALEXANDER'S  deeds  proclaim, 

Or  CESAR'S  triumphs  gild  the  Roman  name ; 

Stripped  of  the  dazzling  glare  around  them  cast, 

Shrinks  at  their  crimes  humanity  aghast ! 

With  equal  claim  to  honor's  glorious  meed, 

See  ATTILA  his  course  of  havoc  lead ! 

O'er  Asia's  realms,  in  one  vast  ruin  hurled, 

See  furious  ZINGIS'  bloody  flag  unfurled! 

On  base  far  different  from  the  conqueror's  claim, 

Rests  the  unsullied  column  of  thy  fame  : 

His  on  the  woes  of  millions  proudly  based, 

With  blood  cemented,  and  with  tears  defaced ; 

Thine  on  a  nation's  welfare  fixed  sublime, 

By  Freedom  strengthened,  and  revered  by  time. 

He,  as  the  comet,  whose  portentous  light 

Spreads  baleful  splendor  o'er  the  glooms  of  night, 

With  chill  amazement  fills  the  startled  breast, 

While  storms  and  earthquakes  dire  its  course  attest, 

And  nature  trembles,. lest,  in  chaos  hurled, 

Should  sink  the  tottering  fabric  of  the  world  ! 

Thou,  like  the  sun,  whose  kind,  propitious  ray 

Opes  the  glad  morn,  and  lights  the  fields  of  day ; 

Dispels  the  wintry  storm,  the  chilling  rain, 

With  rich  abundance  clothes  the  smiling  plain ; 

Gives  all  creation  to  rejoice  around, 

And  life  and  light  extends  o'er  nature's  utmost  bound. 

Though  shone  thy  life  a  model  bright  of  praise, 
Not  less  the  example  bright  thy  death  portrays. 


102  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

When,  plunged  in  deepest  woe,  around  thy  bed, 

Each  eye  was  fixed,  despairing  sunk  each  head ; 

While  nature  struggled  with  severest  pain, 

And  scarce  could  life's  last,  lingering  powers  retain  ; 

In  that  dread  moment,  awfully  serene, 

No  trace  of  suffering  marked  thy  placid  mien  ; 

No  groan,  no  murmuring  plaint  escaped  thy  tongue, 

No  lowering  shadows  on  thy  brow  were  hung ; 

But,  calm  in  Christian  hope,  undamped  with  fear 

Thou  saw'st  the  high  reward  of  virtue  near ; 

On  that  bright  meed  in  surest  trust  reposed, 

As  thy  firm  hand  thine  eyes  expiring  closed ; 

Pleased,  to  the  will  of  HEAVEN  resigned  thy  breath, 

And  smiled,  as  nature's  struggles  closed  in  death ! 

Ill-fated  country !  lo,  of  aid  bereft, 
Thy  spear  is  broken,  and  thy  buckler  cleft ! 
Who,  mid  the  storm,  with  fearless  hand  shall  guide 
Thy  course  in  safety  o'er  the  troubled  tide  ? 
See  Faction  lift  on  high  his  hateful  head  ; 
O'er  his  dark  brow  unwonted  smiles  are  spread ; 
For  now  no  more  that  piercing  eye  he  fears, 
No  more  that  voice,  with  terror  thrilled,  he  hears  ; 
That  eye,  from  whose  bright  beam  he  shrunk  dismayed, 
And  veiled  his  treasons  in  the  midnight  shade  ; 
That  fateful  voice,  which  levelled  in  the  dust 
His  plots  nefarious,  and  his  high-raised  trust : 
For  lo  !  in  slumbers  of  the  grave  reposed, 
Hushed  is  that  voice,  that  eye  in  darkness  closed ! 
********* 

Ere  yet  the  Muse  in  silence  close  the  strain, 
While  still  her  hands  the  sinking  lyre  retain, 
To  thee,  Respected  Mourner,  would  she  pay 
A  solemn  tribute  in  the  heartfelt  lay ; 
Awake  the  strings  to  sympathetic  woe, 
And  bid  the  notes  of  consolation  flow. 
But  who  shall  venture,  with  presumption  rude, 
On  sorrow's  sacred  silence  to  intrude  ? 
May  no  rash  voice  disturb  that  deep  repose  ! 
Afflicted  mourner !  hallowed  be  thy  woes  ! 


HYMN   TO   PEACE. 

Written  at  the  conclusion  of  the  last  War  with  England. 

While  as  yet  with  guilt  unstained, 

Man  through  Eden  happy  strayed, 
PEACE,  the  seraph,  sole  remained, 

Guardian  of  its  blissful  shade  ; 
When  from  duty's  path  declined, 
Him  the  tempter  lured  astray, 
The  angel-guard  his  charge  resigned, 
Weeping  sped  to   heaven  his  way — 
Hail,  thou  bright  celestial  form, 
Soft  descending  from  above, 
Calming  Discord's  furious  storm, 
Child  of  Mercy,  child  of  Love  ! 

But  when  earth's  wide  regions  o'er, 
Far  the  deluge  flood  was  hurled, 
While  the  ark  the  patriarch  bore 

Midst  the  ruins  of  the  world, 
Thou,  commissioned  from  on  high, 

Didst  repress  the  raging  wave, 
Arched  the  rainbow  o'er  the  sky, 
To  the  dove  the  olive  gave — 

Hail,  thou  bright  celestial  form, 
Soft  descending  from  above, 
Calming  Discord's  furious  storm, 
Child  of  Mercy,  child  of  Love  !• 

And  when  midst  exulting   heaven, 
Loud  hosannas  hailed  the  birth 
Of  a  GOD  and  Saviour  given 

To  redeem  the  sons  of  earth, 
Thou  receiv'dst  th'  Almighty  word — 

Go !  o'er  Bethlehem  fix  the  star, 

And  bid  the  nations  sheathe  the  sword 

Through  remotest  realms  afar — 

Hail,  thou  bright  celestial  form, 

Soft  descending  from  above, 
Calming  Discord's  furious  storm, 
Child  of  Mercy,  child  of  Love  ! 


104  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Long  has  War's  unsparing  hand 

Heaped  the  bloody  fields  with  dead, 
And  through  every  Christian  land, 

Want,  dismay  and  sorrow  spread. 
Now  the  clouds  of  sorrow  flee, 

Wars  and  fierce  contentions  cease  ; 
We,  in  choral  hymn,  to  thee, 

Hail  thy  coming,  heavenly  PEACE — 
Hail,  thou  bright  celestial  form, 

Soft  descending  from  above, 
Calming  Discord's  furious  storm, 
Child  of  Mercy,  child  of  Love  ! 


INSCRIPTION   FOR   A  FAMILY  TOMB. 

O  thou,  by  fortune  or  reflection  led, 
To  view  this  gloomy  mansion  of  the  dead, 
O'er  the  sad  spot,  as  casual  roams  thine  eye, 
Where  cold  in  dust  our  mouldering  relics  lie, 
Permit  not  sacrilege,  with  insult  base, 
To  spurn  our  ashes,  or  our  bones  displace. 
Nor  let  the  voice  of  impious  mirth  presume 
To  break  the  hallowed  silence  of  the  tomb. 
Reflect  that  youth,  that  beauty,  now  no  more, 
Here  sleep,  unconscious  of  the  form  they  wore  : 
Here  genius  low  on  earth  extends  his  head, 
His  high-souled  schemes  of  glittering  fancy  fled  ; 
Here  moulder  hearts  that  once  were  prompt  to  feel 
Love's  melting  glow,  and  Friendship's  fervid  zeal ; 
Hearts  that  with  thine  might  boast  as  bright  a  flame, 
As  gay  a  spirit,  animate  their  frame ; 
Who  once  like  thee,  in  pleasure's  sportive  ray, 
Passed  the  short  sunshine  of  life's  summer's  day. 

And  thou,  when,  wearied  with  this  mortal  strife, 
Exhausted  nature  brings  the  eve  of  life, 
From  wintry  storms  a  refuge  safe  shall  crave, 
And  find  with  us  that  refuge  in  the  grave. 


ELIHU   HUBBARD    SMITH,   M.  D. 

[Born  1771.    Died  1798.] 

ELIHU  HUBBARD  SMITH,  son  of  Dr.  REUBEN  SMITH,  was  born  at 
Litchfield,  on  the  4th  of  September,  1771.  When  a  mere  boy  he 
entered  Yale  College,  where  he  was  regularly  graduated  in  1786. 
After  leaving  college,  he  connected  himself  for  a  time  with  the 
Greenfield  Academy,  then  under  the  charge  of  Dr.  DWIGHT,  after 
ward  President  of  Yale  College,  under  whose  excellent  tuition  SMITH 
finished  his  classical  studies.  After  the  completion  of  his  academic 
education,  he  commenced  the  study  of  medicine,  and  attended  a 
full  course  of  lectures  in  Philadelphia.  He  received  his  diplo 
ma,  and  commenced  the  practice  of  his  profession  in  the  town  of 
Wethersfield,  where  he  resided  for  about  the  space  of  two  years.  It 
was  during  this  period  that  Dr.  SMITH  first  became  known  in  a 
literary  character.  He  had  given  early  proof  of  the  possession  of 
poetical  talents,  and  while  in  Philadelphia  had  contributed  to  the 
periodical  press  a  few  articles  under  the  signature  of  "ELLA." 
His  present  residence  wras  more  favorable  to  the  cultivation  and 
exercise  of  his  literary  taste,  from  its  contiguity  to  the  city  of 
Hartford,  where  he  was  often  a  visiter.  He  was  received  by  the 
celebrated  poets  of  that  city  to  their  most  intimate  society ;  and 
although  associated  but  in  a  slight  degree  with  their  literary  labors, 
he  was  nevertheless  a  member  of  their  brotherhood.  He  contributed 
a  few  passages  to  some  of  the  earlier  numbers  of  "  The  Echo,"  and 
wrote  also  for  the  newspapers  of  the  city. 

In  1793,  appeared  from  the  Litchfield  press,  "  American  Poems, 
Selected  and  Original,"  edited  by  Dr.  SMITH.  The  volume  con 
tained  articles  by  TRUMBULL,  DWIGHT,  BARLOW,  HUMPHREYS,  HOP 
KINS,  ALSOP,  and  various  other  authors,  whose  names  are  given,  as 
also  many  anonymous  poems,  selected  from  the  newspapers  of  the 
day,  as  possessing  peculiar  merit.  It  was  the  first  general  collection 
of  poetry  ever  attempted  in  the  country,  and  the  literature  of  that 
day  is  indebted  to  its  editor  for  the  preservation  of  many  interesting 
eifusions  which  otherwise  would  doubtless  have  been  lost. 

During  the  following  year,  1794,  our  author  removed  to  the  city 
of  New  York,  where  he  devoted  himself  with  great  zeal  to  the 
cultivation  of  medical  science  and  of  literature.  He  soon  became 
distinguished  for  his  attainments,  and  obtained  extensive  practice. 


106 


POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 


In  1796,  he  was  elected  one  of  the  physicians  of  the  hospital,  and 
during  the  same  year,  in  conjunction  with  Drs.  MILLER  and  MITCHILL, 
commenced  the  publication  of  "  The  Medical  Repository,"  to  which 
he  contributed  many  valuable  papers.  In  1797,  Dr.  SMITH  published 
"  Edwin  and  Angelina,  or  The  Banditti,  an  Opera,  in  Three  Acts," 
and  in  1798  edited  the  first  American  edition  of  DARWIN'S  "Botanic 
Garden,"  to  which  he  prefixed  a  poetic  address  to  the  author, 
correctly  describing  the  rise,  process  and  use  of  the  art  of  Printing 
as  connected  with  Science,  and  particularly  its  effect  in  spreading 
the  Botanic  Song  throughout  the  world.  This  was  the  last  of  our 
author's  literary  labors.  In  September  of  the  same  year,  during  the 
prevalence  of  the  Yellow  Fever  which  so  fearfully  ravaged  New 
York,  he  fell  a  victim  to  his  untiring  benevolence  in  the  exercise  of 
his  professional  duties,  and  his  humane  attention  to  an  unfortunate 
foreigner  of  distinguished  literary  acquirements,  Dr.  I.  B.  SCANDELLA, 
of  Venice.  Dr.  SMITH  had  received  his  friend  into  his  own  house, 
on  the  return  of  the  latter  from  Philadelphia,  bearing  with  him  the 
infection.  SCANDELLA  died,  and  SMITH  followed  him.  In  "The 
Political  Green-House  "  for  the  same  year,  Mr.  ALSOP  thus  touchingly 
alludes  to  his  friend,  in  describing  the  work  of  the  Pestilence : 

"  Nor  bright  endowments  of  the  mind 
With  learning  fraught  and  taste  refined, 
Nor  pitying  heart  for  others'  woe, 
Can  turn  aside  the  fatal  blow  : 
Else  had  his  shafts  that  winged  the  sky 
Passed  thee,  O  SMITH,  uninjured  by — 
Thy  friends'  delight,  thy  parents'  stay, 
Fond  hope  of  their  declining  day  : 
Nor  had  those  floods  of  sorrow  burst, 
Lamented  COOPER,*  o'er  thy  dust ; 
Nor  mourning  Science  wept  forlorn 
O'er  learned  SCANDELLA'S  timeless  urn." 

The  above-mentioned  Opera,  and  the  Epistle  to  DARWIN,  are  the 
chief  literary  remains  of  our  author.  He  wrote  an  irregular  poem, 
somewhat  after  the  manner  of  GRAY'S  "  Bard,"  descriptive  of  Indian 
character  and  manners,  which  was  never  published.  A  gentleman 
of  high  literary  reputation,  and  of  nice  critical  judgment,  to  whom 
it  was  submitted,  assures  us  that  it  was  a  poem  of  great  merit,  and 
decidedly  the  best  of  Dr.  SMITH'S  productions.  This  poem,  together 
with  all  the  author's  manuscripts,  we  regret  to  say,  was  destroyed 
by  accident,  after  his  death. 

"  Edwin  and  Angelina  "  is  an  opera,  founded  upon  the  celebrated 
ballad  of  GOLDSMITH.  Though  not  published  until  1797,  it  was  in 
part  written  in  1791,  and  was  brought  out  upon  the  stage  in  1794. 

*  Dr.  COOPER,  of  Philadelphia. 


DR.     ELIHU     HUBBARD     SMITH. 


107 


It  was  highly  successful,  but  as  a  poem  it  cannot  claim  any  superior 
merit.  Its  story  is  this :  Earl  ETHELBERT  cherishes  an  improper 
passion  for  EMMA,  a  peasant  girl.  To  accomplish  his  base  purposes 
he  imprisons  SIFRID,  the  betrothed  lover  of  EMMA,  to  whom  he  is 
indebted  for  the  preservation  of  his  life,  and  then  bears  EMMA  to  his 
castle.  SIFRID  escapes,  and  becomes  the  chief  of  a  company  of 
forest  banditti.  ETHELBERT,  repulsed  by  EMMA,  becomes  enamored 
of  ANGELINA,  daughter  of  a  neighboring  Earl,  who  refuses  his  suit. 
The  tears  of  the  captive  EMMA  at  length  soften  his  heart.  He  offers 
her,  though  in  vain,  half  of  his  wealth,  and  makes  fruitless  efforts  to 
discover  the  retreat  of  her  lover.  Meanwhile  ANGELINA,  having 
discarded  the  suit  of  the  humble  EDWIN,  whom  she  loves,  flies 
distractedly,  habited  as  a  pilgrim,  to  the  forest,  where  EDWIN  has 
already  taken  refuge  in  a  Hermitage.  This  forest  is  infested  by 
SIFRID  and  his  band,  and  thither  ETHELBERT  also  comes  in  pursuit 
of  ANGELINA.  He  falls  into  the  power  of  his  old  enemy,  SIFRID,  to 
whom  he  declares  his  penitence,  with  the  assurance  of  EMMA'S 
safety,  and  his  willingness  to  restore  her  to  her  lover.  The  Chief 
forgives  him,  and  promises  his  assistance  for  the  recovery  of  the  lost 
ANGELINA.  She  meantime  has  wandered  to  the  Hermitage  of 
EDWIN,  and  a  hearty  reconciliation  is  effected.  There  they  are 
surprised  by  ETHELBERT,  SIFRID,  and  the  band.  EDWIN  resists, 
and  ETHELBERT,  who  owes  to  him  also  his  life,  yields  his  claim  to  the 
disputed  lady.  SIFRID  and  his  comrades  are  persuaded  by  the  advice 
and  proffers  of  ETHELBERT  to  abandon  their  unlawful  pursuits,  and 
return  to  virtuous  life ;  and  a  joyful  chorus  closes  the  piece.  With 
this  explanation  the  reader  will  readily  understand  any  selections 
we  may  present. 


DISCOVERY  OF   PRINTING.* 

For  unknown  ages,  mid  his  wild  abode, 
Speechless  and  rude  the  human  savage  trode ; 
By  slow  degrees  expressive  sounds  acquired, 
And  simple  thoughts  in  words  uncouth  attired. 
As  growing  wants  and  varying  climes  arise, 
Excite  desire  and  animate  surprise, 
Gradual  his  mind  a  wider  circuit  ranged, 
His  manners  softened,  and  his  language  changed ; 
And  grey  experience,  wiser  than  of  yore, 
Bequeathed  its  strange  traditionary  lore. 

*  From  the  "  Epistle  to  the  Author  of  the  '  Botanic  Garden.'" 


Again  long  ages  mark  the  flight  of  time, 
And  lingering  toil  evolves  the  Art  divine. 
Coarse  drawings  first  the  imperfect  thought  revealed  ; 
Next,  barbarous  forms  the  mystic  sense  concealed ; 
Capricious  signs  the  meaning  then  disclose  ; 
And  last,  the  infant  alphabet  arose ; 
From  Nilus'  banks  adventurous  CADMUS  errs, 
Arid  on  his  Thebes  the  peerless  boon  confers. 

Slow  spread  the  sacred  art,  its  use  was  slow : 
Whate'er  the  improvements  later  times  bestow, 
Still  how  restrained,  how  circumscribed  its  power ! 
Years  raise  the  fruit  an  instant  may  devour. 
Fond  Science  wept ;  the  uncertain  toil  she  viewed, 
And  in  the  evil,  half  forgot  the  good. 
What  though  the  sage,  and  though  the  bard  inspired, 
By  truth  illumined,  and  by  genius  fired, 
In  high  discourse  the  theme  divine  prolong, 
And  pour  the  glowing  tide  of  lofty  song ; 
To  princes  limited,  to  PLUTUS'  sons, 
Tyrants  of  mines  and  heritors  of  thrones, 
The  theme,  the  song,  scarce  touched  the  general  mind, 
Lost  or  secluded  from  oppressed  mankind. 
Fond  Science  wept ;  how  vain  her  cares  she  saw, 
Subject  to  Fortune's  ever-varying  law. 
Month  after  month  a  single  transcript  claimed, 
The  style  perchance,  perchance  the  story  maimed : 
The  guides  to  truth  corrupted  or  destroyed, 
A  passage  foisted,  or  a  painful  void, 
The  work  of  ignorance,  or  of  fraud  more  bold, 
To  blast  a  rival,  or  a  scheme  uphold ; 
Or  in  the  progress  of  the  long  review, 
Th'  original  perished  as  the  copy  grew ; 
Or,  perfect  both,  while  pilgrim  bands  admire, 
The  instant  prey  of  accidental  fire. 
Fond  Science  wept ;  whate'er  of  costliest  use, 
The  gift  and  glory  of  each  favoring  Muse  ; 
From  every  land  what  genius  might  select ; 
What  wealth  might  purchase,  and  what  power  protect ; 


DR.  ELIHU  HUBBARD  SMITH.         109 

The  guides  of  youth,  the  comforters  of  age  ; 
Swept  by  the  besom  of  barbaric  rage, — 
Scarce  a  few  fragments  scattered  o'er  the  field 
Frantic  in  one  sad  moment  she  beheld. 
"  Nor  shall  such  toil  my  generous  sons  subdue  ; 
Nor  waste  like  this  again  distress  the  view ! " 
She  cries  : — where  Harlem's  classic  groves 
Embowering  rise,  with  silent  flight  she  moves  ; 
She  marks  LAURENTIUS  carve  the  beechen  rind, 
And  darts  a  new  creation  on  his  mind : 
A  sudden  rapture  thrills  the  conscious  shades ; 
The  gift  remains,  the  bounteous  vision  fades. 
Homeward,  entranced,  the  Belgic  sire  returns ; 
New  hope  inspires  him  and  new  ardor  burns ; 
Secret  he  meditates  his  art  by  day : 
By  night  fair  phantoms  o'er  his  fancy  stray ; 
With  opening  morn  they  rush  upon  his  soul, 
Nor  cares  nor  duties  banish  nor  control ; 
Haunt  his  sequestered  path,  his  social  scene, 
And  in  his  prayers  seductive  intervene. 


EDWIN  AND  ANGELINA.— AN  OPERA. 


ACT    SECOND.       SCENE    I. 

A  secluded  part  of  the  forest.     ANGELINA  enters,  disguised  in  the  habit  of  a 
pilgrim. 

ANGELINA. 

With  melancholy  steps,  hopeless  I  wander ; 
And  no  repose,  no  sheltering  shed,  discern. 
Oh  EDWIN  !  how  has  vanity  repaid  me  ! 
With  wreck  of  happiness,  and  loss  of  peace. 
Hated  by  thee,  myself  I  hate,  and  find, 
From  solitude,  whence  ease  I  hoped,  new  pains. 

Mid  these  wild  woods,  hostile,  or  full  of  fear, 
Where'er  I  come,  the  beasts  menacing  howl, 
Or  fly,  as  from  some  desolating  fiend. 
The  warblers  cease  their  songs,  or  flit  away, 
And  on  the  distant  trees'  soft-waving  tops, 


110  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Insult  my  sorrows  with  their  merriest  notes. 
The  forest  green,  and  every  budding  plant, 
Flowers,  and  the  springing  blade,  and  mantling  vine, 
All  the  full  blessing  of  the  spring  enjoy  ; 
And  to  my  soul  new  melancholy  add. 

My  tears  incessant  flow  ! — Alas  !  how  sad, 
How  desolate  is  life  ;  when  but  to  think 
On  those  whom  most  we  love,  afflicts  us  most. 

The  soft  and  gently-pleasing  woe, 
Which  two  fond  hearts,  divided,  know, 

The  soul  with  sweetest  suffering  moves ; 
But  oh!  when  guilt  with  absence  joins, 
Grief  it  to  agony  refines, 

And  fires  to  rage  the  breast  that  loves. 

'  [She  goes  out. 


ACT    THIRD.       SCENE    V. 

The  Hermitage.     EDWIN  and  ANGELINA  discovered  sitting  in  the  entrance  of 
the  cell :  a  small  table  spread,  and  covered  with  various  fruits. 


EDWIN. 

Is  happiness  thy  wish  ?  here  rest ;  here  dwell. 
Remote  from  courts,  and  palaces,  and  kings ; 
From  domes  of  grandeur,  and  from  halls  of  wealth  ; 
Far  from  the  poisonous  city's  busy  hum  ; 
From  Passion's  reign,  and  fierce  Ambition's  war, 
Borne  on  the  winnowing  gale,  flies  Happiness. 
She  loves,  with  Peace  her  sister,  to  reside 
In  cottages  and  vales  ;  by  running  streams  ; 
In  woods  ;  and  on  the  cliff's  rude,  hanging  brow : 
For  there,  if  yet,  perchance,  on  earth  they  dwell, 
Meets  she  Integrity,  and  sober  Toil ; 
And  Innocence,  and  sweet  Simplicity  : 
And  oft  the  Hermit's  cell  she  deigns  to  visit ; 
With  Fiety  her  guide,  and  mild  Repose 
Her  fair  attendant. 


DR.     ELIHU     HUBBARD     SMITH.  Ill 


ACT    THIRD.       SCENE    VII. 


Chorus. 

Now  burst  the  shout  of  joy  around, 
And  let  the  forest  wide  resound. 
Peace  henceforth  for  ever  reigns  ; 
And  laughing  Plenty  loads  our  plains : 
Then  burst  the  shout  of  joy  around, 
And  let  the  forest  wide  resound. 

SIFRID. 
Fierce  Despair, 

EDWIN. 

And  frantic  Grief, 

BOTH. 
Find,  at  length,  unhoped  relief: 

ANGELINA. 
Wayward  Beauty, 

ETHELBERT. 

Brutal  lust, 

BOTH. 
Learn  to  feel,  and  dare  be  just. 

Chorus. 

Burst,  then,  the  shout  of  joy  around, 
And  let  the  forest  wide  resound. 

ETHELBERT. 
The  waters  of  the  living  fount, 

Dashed  in  cascades,  in  columns  tossed, 
Nor  nurse  the  root,  nor  swell  the  blade, 

Wasted  in  foam,  dispersed,  and  lost ; 
But,  issuing  in  a  gentle  stream, 

Through  smiling  meads,  rejoicing  stray  : 
Perennial  flow,  and  fruits  and  flowers, 

And  living  verdure,  mark  their  way  : 

Chorus. 

Loud  burst  the  shouts  of  joy  around, 
And  plains  and  forests  wide  resound. 


112  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

EDWIN. 

The  mineral  sleeping  in  the  mine, 
Decks  not  the  board,  nor  glows  in  coin, 

While  droop  the  languid  arts  ; 
Refined  its  power,  where'er  it  flies 
Bids  new-born  wonders  round  arise, 

New  energy  imparts ; 

Chorus. 

While  burst  the  shouts  of  joy  around, 
And  plains  and  busy  shores  resound. 

ANGELINA. 

The  meteor  gilds  the  face  of  night, 
The  pilgrim  trusts  the  faithless  light, 

And  sinks  in  lonely  death ; 
But,  by  the  moon's  serener  ray, 
Unharmed  the  wanderer  speeds  his  way, 

O'er  many  an  unknown  heath ; 

Chorus. 

And  swells  the  notes  of  joy  around, 
And  bids  the  peaceful  shades  resound. 

SIFRID. 
When,  armed  with  terror,  through  the  sky 

The  lightnings  flash,  the  thunders  roar ; 
When  rush  the  tempests  from  on  high, 

Howl  o'er  the  sea,  and  sweep  the  shore  ; 
The  whelmed  ship  sinks,  the  cottage  falls, 
And  ruin  every  heart  appals  : 

But  when  the  lively  breezes  blow, 
And  fan,  with  gentle  gales,  the  land  ; 

Or  bid  their  airy  currents  flow, 

And  swell  the  sail  that  quits  the  strand  ; 

Smooth  glides  the  ship,  the  cottage  smiles, 

And  gay  content  each  heart  beguiles  ; 

Chorus. 

While  bursts  the  shout  of  joy  around, 
And  earth  and  heaven  the  strain  resound. 


WILLIAM     RAY. 


113 


WILLIAM    RAY. 


[Born  1771 .    Died  1827.] 

WILLIAM  RAY  was  born  at  Salisbury,  on  the  9th  of  December, 
1771.  At  a  very  early  age  he  developed  poetical  talents,  which, 
under  more  favorable  circumstances,  and  with  better  advantages  of 
education,  might  have  placed  his  name  among  the  most  eminent 
writers  of  his  day.  His  father  removed  to  a  remote  town  in  the 
state  of  New  York,  where  the  son  had  little  opportunity  of  gratifying 
his  inclination  for  literary  pursuits.  At  the  age  of  nineteen,  he  left 
the  paternal  roof  and  removed  to  Dover,  in  Duchess  County,  New 
York,  where  he  assumed  the  charge  of  a  school.  He  soon  aban 
doned  this  occupation,  and  engaged  in  trade,  which  he  pursued  for 
a  number  of  years.  His  commercial  speculations  proved  unsuc 
cessful,  and  finally  issued  in  bankruptcy.  Finding  it  impossible  to 
obtain  a  release  from  his  creditors,  or  to  procure  employment  for  the 
support  of  himself  and  wife,  he  left  his  home  in  the  spring  of  1803, 
and  started  for  Philadelphia,  in  search  of  some  congenial  occupation. 
He  travelled  through  the  state  of  Pennsylvania  under  circumstances 
of  great  distress,  and  with  but  very  slender  pecuniary  resources. 
He  was  overtaken  by  sickness :  his  last  cent  was  expended :  and 
he  at  length  reached  Philadelphia  in  a  state  of  extreme  destitution, 
and  not  yet  restored  to  a  comfortable  degree  of  health.  Here  new 
trials  awaited  him.  He  failed  to  procure  employment,  and,  impelled 
by  his  necessities,  on  the  13th  of  June,  1803,  enlisted  into  the 
maritime  service  of  the  United  States.  Our  author  seems  to  admit 
"  that  imprudence,  vice,  intemperance,  and  prodigality,  were  the 
primary  cause  of  his  misfortunes ;"  and  pleads  that  "the  miseries 
and  horrors  of  a  painful  mancipation,  and  a  thousand  concomitant 
evils  and  sufferings,  ought,  in  some  degree,  to  expiate  his  faults  and 
follies  in  the  benignant  eyes  of  Charity." 

On  the  3d  of  July,  RAY  and  his  comrades  were  ordered  on  board 
the  frigate  Philadelphia,  under  the  command  of  Captain  BAINBRIDGE, 
destined  to  join  our  squadron  against  Tripoli.  She  sailed  in  the 
course  of  the  same  month,  having  on  board  a  complement  of  three 
hundred  men.  The  frigate  proceeded  prosperously  on  her  voyage, 
and  arrived  at  Gibraltar  on  the  26th  of  August.  Here  she  remained 


114 


POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 


a  few  days,  and  was  joined  by  several  American  ships  of  the  line. 
Information  being  received  that  a  vessel  with  Barbary  colors  was 
cruizing  off  the  "  Rock,"  the  Philadelphia  went  in  pursuit  of  her, 
under  English  colors.  The  stranger  was  easily  captured,  and  proved 
to  be  a  Morocco  vessel  mounting  twenty-two  guns,  and  containing 
about  one  hundred  men.  The  prize  had  captured  an  American  brig, 
which  the  Philadelphia,  on  the  following  day,  overtook  and  re-cap 
tured,  liberating  her  crew  from  their  bondage.  The  frigate,  in 
company  writh  the  prize  and  brig,  then  returned  to  Gibraltar.  In 
October  the  Philadelphia  proceeded  to  the  island  of  Malta,  and  from 
thence  sailed  for  Tripoli.  On  the  31st  day  of  October  she  fell  in 
with  an  enemy's  vessel  off  the  harbor  of  Tripoli,  and  gave  chase. 
The  pirate  stood  in  for  the  town,  and  the  frigate  made  every  effort 
to  cut  off  her  retreat.  Having  no  pilot  on  board  who  understood  the 
harbor,  and  becoming  excited  in  the  pursuit,  the  Americans  ventured 
in  too  far,  and  when  about  three  miles  distant  from  the  town,  their 
vessel  struck  upon  a  shoal,  and  remained  fast.  Every  effort  was 
made,  though  in  vain,  to  release  her,  while  the  enemy,  embold 
ened  by  her  condition,  sent  off  three  gun-boats  against  her.  It  was 
a  little  past  twelve  o'clock  when  the  frigate  struck,  and  her  crew 
continued  firing  at  the  boats,  and  using  every  means  to  get  their  ship 
afloat,  until  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  when,  unable  to  escape 
or  longer  to  resist,  they  struck  their  flag,  and  the  Philadelphia  was 
consigned  to  her  piratical  victors.  The  enemy  immediately  boarded 
her,  when  convinced  that  she  had,  in  reality,  surrendered,  and  the 
officers  and  crew  were  soon  escorted  into  the  presence  of  their  new 
master,  the  Bashaw  of  Tripoli. 

From  this  period,  for  more  than  a  year  and  a  half,  the  history  of 
RAY  and  his  comrades  is  a  tale  of  sad  captivity  and  hardship.  The 
officers  of  the  Philadelphia  suffered  much  from  confinement,  and  the 
want  of  proper  nourishment ;  but  the  greatest  misery  was  allotted  to 
the  unfortunate  crew.  Stripped  of  almost  all  their  clothing,  reduced 
to  so  pitiful  an  allowance  of  food  that  life  could  scarcely  be  sustained, 
they  were  driven  forth  in  bands  to  the  performance  of  the  most 
incredible  labors  ;  and  when  sickness  necessarily  succeeded  to  such 
unnatural  exertions,  the  wretched  captives  received  from  their 
tyrants  only  threats  and  blows.  At  one  time  we  find  many  of  them 
employed  to  raise  a  wreck  of  a  vessel,  deeply  sunken  in  the  sand. 
At  the  coldest  season  of  the  year  they  are  forced  into  the  water  at 
sunrise,  and  compelled  to  shovel  the  sand  from  the  bottom,  and  carry 
it  in  baskets  to  the  bank.  Once  throughout  the  day  they  are  allowed 
a  scanty  meal,  when  they  resume  their  labors  until  sunset,  and  then 
return  to  their  prison  to  pass  the  night  upon  the  damp  earth,  and 
await  the  horrors  of  the  succeeding  day.  Again,  at  another  season, 
many  of  them  are  compelled,  barefooted  and  almost  naked,  to  drag  a 


WILLIAM     RAY.  115 

heavy  wagon  five  or  six  miles  into  the  country,  over  burning  sands, 
and  back  again,  loaded  with  timber,  before  any  food  was  allowed  them, 
except,  perhaps,  raw  vegetables.  A  number  were  released  from 
their  sufferings  by  death,  and  to  the  survivors  life  became  a  burden 
almost  insupportable.  Every  exertion  in  his  power  was  made  by 
Captain  BAINBRIDGE  for  the  relief  of  his  crew,  and  frequently,  through 
the  Danish  Consul,  he  was  enabled  to  send  them  some  comfortable 
provisions.  Yet  he  was  himself  a  captive  also,  and  could  effect  but 
little  for  their  relief. 

But  the  American  government  was  not  unmindful  of  the  fate  of  its 
unfortunate  defenders.     During  the  summer  of  1804,  an  American 
squadron  was  sent  out  under  Commodore  PREBLE  against  Tripoli. 
On  the  3d  of  August,  the  squadron  stood  in  for  the  harbor,  and 
commenced   a  severe   cannonade    against  the   shipping,    and  also 
>  bombarded   the   town.      Three   of  the   Tripolitan   gun-boats  were 
i  captured,  three  were  sunk,  a  number  of  prisoners  were  taken,  and 
s  many  killed  and  wounded,  with  but  little  loss  on  the  part  of  the 
(  Amerioxns.     On  the  7th,  Commodore  PREBLE  renewed  the  attack  on 
<j  the  town  with  much  execution,  though  sustaining  a  greater  loss  than 
?  on  the  former  occasion.     The  Bashaw  still  demanding  a  large  ransom 
)  for  his  prisoners,  on  the  26th  of  August,  and  again  on  the  3d  of 
^  September,  the  attack  was  renewed  upon  the  town,  and  upon  the 
gallies  and  gun-boats  of  the  enemy.     Soon  after,  the  weather  proving 
unfavorable,  and  the  ammunition  being  greatly  reduced,  the  Commo 
dore  dismissed  all  the  vessels  but  three,  for  Syracuse,  and  with  these 
determined  to  keep  up  the  blockade.     He  was  shortly  afterward 
joined  by  two  other  ships  under  command  of  Commodore  BARRON, 
to  whom  the  charge  was  resigned.     But  the  season  was  now  so  far 
advanced  that  little  more  was  done  to  the  injury  of  the  enemy,  save 
the  capture  of  a  number  of  vessels  laden  with  wheat,  and  bound  for 
the  Tripolitan  market. 

Early  in  the  following  season  the  Bashaw  was  willing  to  treat  for 
peace.  He  was  impoverished  in  his  finances,  and  justly  alarmed  at 
the  report  of  the  formidable  armament  preparing  against  him.  On 
the  20th  of  May,  three  American  frigates  appeared  in  sight.  The 
smallest  came  near  the  town,  and  hoisted  the  banner  of  peace,  a 
signal  to  which  the  Bashaw  gladly  responded.  The  frigates  however 
disappeared,  and  hope  and  fear  alternately  agitated  the  breasts  both 
of  the  Tripolitans  and  their  miserable  captives.  On  the  29th,  three 
Irigates  and  a  brig  bore  down  upon  the  town,  and  displayed  the 
signals  of  peace,  which  were  immediately  answered  from  the  castle. 
From  this  period  friendly  negotiations  went  on  rapidly,  and  on  the 
3d  day  of  June,  1805,  the  articles  were  signed.  At  four  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon  a  salute  was  fired  from  the  frigates  and  batteries, 
i 


116  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

causing  transports  of  wild  delight  in  many  a  long  desolate  bosom. 
Our  author  enthusiastically  exclaims, 

"  But  oh  !  what  joy  when  the  saluting  sound 
Was  heard  to  thunder  through  the  arches  round  ! 
Enraptured  lays  the  choral  hundreds  sung, 
And  that  drear  mansion  once  with  gladness  rung  ! " 

The  "saluting  sound"  of  course  spoke  freedom  to  the  American 
captives,  and  their  first  act  on  regaining  their  liberty  was  one  so 
noble  that  it  ought  not  to  be  omitted.  They  immediately  resumed  a 
subject  which  had  before  enlisted  their  sympathies — that  of  liberat 
ing  a  fellow-prisoner,  a  friendly  Neapolitan,  who  had  been  able  to 
render  several  of  them  essential  services.  They  subscribed  over 
three  hundred  dollars,  wrote  to  Captain  BAINBRIDGE,  had  the  sum 
deducted  from  their  wages,  and  restored  their  still  captive  friend  to 
freedom. 

Our  author  now  entered  as  Captain's  clerk  on  board  the  frigate 
Essex,  and  returned  home  during  the  following  year.  Whatever 
may  have  been  his  conduct  before  entering  the  service,  it  was 
irreproachable  during  his  connection  with  it,  and  he  left  with  the 
good  will  and  respect  both  of  his  commander  and  of  all  the  other 
officers. 

In  1809,  RAY  removed  to  a  town  in  Essex  County,  in  New  York, 
and  resumed  his  old  mercantile  occupation,  but  with  no  better  success 
than  before.  In  1812,  upon  the  declaration  of  war  with  England, 
he  was  made  a  Major  in  the  detached  militia  which  was  stationed  at 
Plattsburgh.  After  a  short  term  of  military  service,  he  resided  in 
various  parts  of  the  state  of  New  York,  and  finally  settled  in  Onon- 
daga,  where  he  held  the  office  of  Justice  of  the  Peace,  and  Commis 
sioner  in  courts  of  Record.  He  died  at  Auburn  in  1827. 

The  first  work  of  our  author  was   published  in  1808,  entitled 

"  Horrors  of  Slavery,  or  the  American  Tars  in  Tripoli,"  from  which 

we  have  derived  the  greater  part  of  the  preceding  particulars.     It  is 

a  well-written  narration  of  the  unfortunate  expedition  of  the  Phila- 

/  delphia,  and  the  subsequent  sufferings  of  her  crew,  together  with  a 

;  description  of  Tripoli,  the  manners  and  customs  of  its  inhabitants, 

j,  and  the  transactions  of  the  United  States  with  that  government. 

<J  The  volume  is  interspersed  with  various  poetical  effusions,  and  a 

)  few  pages  of  verse  are  appended  to  it. 

/  In  1821,  RAY  published  a  volume  of  poems,  containing  also  a  brief 
jj  narrative  of  his  sufferings  in  Tripoli.  His  poems  are  characterized 
(.  by  melodious  versification,  and  are  often  forcible.  Yet  they  lack 
(  imagination,  and  betray  a  want  of  delicate  taste  in  their  author.  But 
<J  the  poet,  in  the  conclusion  of  his  long  and  well-written  "  Exordium" 
<•  to  his  first  volume,  has  deprecated  criticism,  alluding,  we  presume, 


WILLIAM     RAY. 


117 


as  well  to  his  verses  as  his  Narrative,  and  he  may  be  heard  in  his 
own  defence  : 

"  Reader  !  lay  prejudice  aside, 

And  let  calm  reason  be  your  guide  ! 

If  in  the  following,  then,  you  find 

Things  not  so  pleasing  to  your  mind, 

And  think  them  false,  why,  disbelieve  them : 

Errors  of  weakness  ?  then  forgive  them  : 

And  let  our  sufferings  and  abuses 

For  several  facts  make  some  excuses  : 

And  when  you  're  captured  by  a  Turk, 

Sit  down  and  write  a  better  work ! " 


TRIPOLI. 

Ye  lurid  domes !  whose  tottering  columns  stand, 
Marks  of  the  despot's  desolating  hand  ; 
Whose  weed-grown  roofs  and  mouldering  arches  show 
The  curse  of  tyranny,  a  nation's  wo  ; 
In  every  ruin — every  pile  I  find 
A  warning  lesson  to  a  thoughtful  mind. 
Your  gloomy  cells  expressive  silence  break, 
Echo  to  groans,  and  eloquently  speak ; 
"  The  Christian's  blood  cements  the  stones  he  rears, 
This  clay  was  moistened  with  a  Christian's  tears ; 
Pale  as  these  walls,  a  prisoner  oft  has  lain, 
Felt  the  keen  scourge  and  worn  the  ruthless  chain  ; 
While  scoffing  foes  increasing  tortures  pour, 
Till  the  poor  victim  feels,  alas  !  no  more !  " 
Here  thy  brave  tars,  America,  are  found, 
Locked  in  foul  prisons  and  in  fetters  bound. 
Must  free  Columbians  bow 
Before  yon  tinsel  tyrant's  murky  brow  ? 
Cringe  to  a  power  which  death  and  rapine  crown  ? 
Smile  at  a  smile,  and  tremble  at  a  frown  ? 
Kneel  at  a  throne,  its  clemency  implore, 
Enriched  by  spoils,  and  stained  with  human  gore  1 
Bear  the  sharp  lash,  the  ponderous  load  sustain, 
Suppress  their  anger,  and  revenge  restrain  ? 
Leave  a  free  clime,  explore  the  treacherous  waves, 
The  sport  of  miscreants  and  the  slave  of  slaves  ? 


Heavens  !  at  the  sight  each  patriot  bosom  glows 

With  virtuous  hatred  on  its  country's  foes  ; 

At  every  blow  indignant  passions  rise, 

And  vengeance  flashes  from  resentful  eyes. 

But  HEAVEN  is  just,  though  man's  bewildered  mind 

To  the  dark  ways  of  providence  is  blind  ; 

Else  why  are  some  ordained  above  the  rest, 

Or  villains  treated  better  than  the  best  ? 

Why,  martyred  virtue,  hang  thy  injured  head  ? 

Why  lived  an  ARNOLD,  while  a  WARREN  bled  ? 

Earth's  murderers  triumph,  proud  oppressors  reign, 

While  patriots  bleed,  and  captives  sigh  in  vain  ? 

Yet  slumbering  Justice  soon  shall  wake  and  show 

Her  sword,  unsheathed,  and  vengeance  wing  the  blow 

Columbia's  genius,  glorious  as  the  sun, 

With  thy  blest  shade,  immortal  WASHINGTON, 

Unite  to  guard  us  from  nefarious  foes, 

And  HEAVEN  defend,  and  angels  interpose  ! 


COMMENCEMENT   OF   SERVICE. 

I  am  a  soldier,  older  in  practice,  abler  than  yourself  to  make  conditions. 

CASSIUS. 


Our  foes  by  earth  and  heaven  abhorred, 
'T  is  God-like  to  unsheath  the  sword. 


PAINE. 


Who  's  he  that  walks  with  such  a  swagger, 
A  cockade,  uniform  and  dagger, 
Holding  this  motto  up  to  view, 
"  I  am  much  better,  sir,  than  you  ? " 
Why,  't  is  our  officer — young  DAVY — 
A  smart  Lieutenant  of  the  Navy  ; 
Who  's  challenged — though  they  call  him  cruel, 
Twice  twenty  bumpers  to  one  duel, 
And  fought  where  clubs,  not  cannon,  rattle, 
A  score  of  watchmen  in  one  battle  ; 
Wounds  he  's  received — in  all  his  clothes  ; 
And  bled  profusely — at  the  nose  ; 
For  which,  grown  bolder  still  and  braver, 
He  basks  in  governmental  favor. 


WILLIAM     RAY.  119 

And  who  is  he  with  feathered  head, 

A  coat  broad-faced  with  warlike  red  ? 

That  blustering — tell  me  what  it  means  ? 

Why,  he  's  Lieutenant  of  Marines  ; 

Whose  duty  't  is  to  follow  fashions, 

To  draw  his  pay  and  eat  his  rations ; 

T'  enlist  recruits  for  calls  emergent, 

To  drill  them,  or  to  make  his  sergeant — 

Defraud  them  out  of  half  their  pay, 

Then  flog  them,  if  a  word  they  say ; 

For  all  the  art  of  war  consists 

In  pay-rolls  and  provision  lists, 

Well  rilled,  which  men  are  forced  to  sign — 

This,  this  is  martial  discipline. 


THE  WAY  TO  BE   HAPPY. 

Do  troubles  overwhelm  thy  soul, 

Like  billows  of  the  ocean, 
That  o'er  the  shipwrecked  victim  roll, 

In  terrible  commotion  ? 
Seize  bold  Imagination's  wing 

And  soar  to  heaven,  so  seeming, 
Or  reign  a  potentate  and  king — 

'T  is  all  obtained  by  dreaming. 

Do  pain  and  poverty  unite 

To  rob  thee  of  all  pleasure  ? 
Like  thieves  break  in  at  dead  of  night, 

And  steal  away  thy  treasure  ? 
The  treasure  of  a  tranquil  mind, 

With  joy  and  rapture  teeming, 
Seek,  seek,  my  friend — and  thou  shalt  find 

More  solid  joy  in  dreaming. 

For  let  the  world  still  darker  frown 
Than  night-clouds  on  creation, 

And  shower  its  tenfold  vengeance  down, 
Its  wrath  and  indignation, 


On  this  devoted  head  of  mine, 

One  star  is  still  left  gleaming — 
One  light  that  will  for  ever  shine, 

The  hope,  the  bliss  of  dreaming. 

******* 

Whene'er  I  lay  me  down  to  rest, 

With  toils  and  sorrows  weary, 
A  heart  most  feelingly  distressed, 

And  all  on  earth  looks  dreary ; 
Aerial  powers  around  me  throng, 

With  light  and  glory  beaming, 
And  waft  my  raptured  soul  along 

The  paradise  of  dreaming. 

And  oft  as  pensively  I  walk 

In  solitary  places, 
I  hear  celestial  spirits  talk, 

And  think  I  see  their  faces  ; 
They  bid  me  leave  all  earthly  things, 

While  tears  of  grief  are  streaming — 
I  mount  Imagination's  wings, 

And  find  my  heaven  in  dreaming. 


AUTUMN. 
Look  at  Autumn — see  the  day — 

Glooms  obscure  its  new-born  glory ; 
Summer  having  died  away, 
Hear  its  dirge  repeat  the  story, 
Man  and  Nature  must  decay. 

Look  at  Autumn — see  the  night 

Veiled  in  blackness — tempests  howling; 
Now  and  then  the  moon  in  sight, 

Looking  down,  and  on  you  scowling : 

Cold  and  cheerless  is  her  light. 
Look  at  Autumn — vales  and  groves, 

Vocal  late  with  joy  and  gladness  ; 
Mournful  now  with  turtle  doves, 

Pouring  forth  their  notes  of  sadness — 
Broken  vows  and  blighted  loves. 


WILLIAM     RAY. 

^-X^-V^-N^-^^^^.X-^V-N^-N^-^-^^^-s.^-- 

Look  at  Autumn — hear  the  winds 
Nature's  destiny  bemoaning, 

Every  blast  of  death  reminds  ; 

Autumn,  too,  in  death  lies  groaning — 
Every  thing  destruction  finds. 

Look  at  Autumn — every  where 
Desolation  stalks  before  you  ; 

Ruin  dark,  and  wild  despair, 

Like  two  cormorants  hang  o'er  you — 
For  the  frost  of  death  prepare. 

Look  at  Autumn — white  with  frost, 
Like  old  age  with  snowy  tresses  ; 

When  our  path  of  life  is  crossed 
By  a  bandit  of  distresses, 
In  a  moment  all  is  lost. 

Look  at  Autumn — see  the  trees  ; 

Mortal,  look,  and  cease  complaining ; 
And  the  blossoms,  look  on  these  ; 

All  have  buds  of  life  remaining — 
GOD  in  wisdom  thus  decrees. 

He  all  nature  will  restore, 

And  with  Spring  again  returning, 

Light  the  lamp  of  life  once  more, 
In  man's  breast,  for  ever  burning 
When  the  light  of  time  is  o'er. 


121 


VILLAGE    GREATNESS. 

In  every  country  village,  where 

Ten  chimney  smokes  perfume  the  air, 

Contiguous  to  a  steeple, 
Great  gentle-folks  are  found,  a  score, 
Who  ca  n't  associate  any  more 

With  common  "  country  people." 

JACK  FALLOW,  born  amongst  the  woods, 
From  rolling  logs,  now  rolls  in  goods, 
Enough  awhile  to  dash  on — 


122  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Tells  negro  stories — smokes  segars — 
Talks  politics — decides  on  wars — 
And  lives  in  stylish  fashion. 

TIM  OX-GOAD,  lately  from  the  plough, 
A  polished  gentleman  is  now, 

And  talks  of  "  country  fellows  ;  " 
But  ask  the  fop  what  books  he  's  read, 
You  '11  find  the  brain-pan  of  his  head 

As  empty  as  a  bellows. 

Miss  FAD  OLE,  lately  from  the  wheel, 
Begins  quite  lady-like  to  feel, 
And  talks  affectedly  genteel, 

And  sings  some  tasty  songs,  too ; 
But  my  veracity  impeach, 
If  she  can  tell  what  part  of  speech 

Gentility  belongs  to. 

Without  one  spark  of  wit  refined, 
Without  one  beauty  of  the  mind, 

Genius  or  education, 
Or  family,  or  fame  to  boast — 
To  see  such  gentry  rule  the  roast, 

Turns  patience  to  vexation. 

To  clear  such  rubbish  from  the  earth, 
Though  real  genius — mental  worth, 

And  science  to  attend  you, 
You  might  as  well  the  sty  refine, 
Or  cast  your  pearls  before  the  swine  ; 

They  'd  only  turn  and  rend  you. 


JOHNALSOP.  123 


JOHN    ALSOP. 

[Born  1776.     Died  1841.] 

JOHN  ALSOP,  the  youngest  brother  of  RICHARD  ALSOP,  already 
mentioned  in  our  volume,  was  born  in  Middletown,  on  the  5th  of 
February,  1776.  At  an  early  age  he  entered  Yale  College,  but  left 
the  institution  before  completing  its  full  course  of  study,  and  became 
a  pupil  of  Dr.  DWIGHT,  at  the  Greenfield  Hill  Academy.  He  read 
law  at  the  celebrated  law  school  at  Litchfield,  then  under  the  charge 
of  Judge  REEVE,  and  after  being  admitted  to  the  bar,  resided  for  a 
short  time  in  New  London,  in  the  practice  of  his  profession.  After 
ward  he  opened  a  bookstore  at  Hartford,  but  soon  removed  to  the 
city  of  New  York,  where  he  remained  for  a  number  of  years, 
engaged  in  the  same  business.  On  relinquishing  his  public  occupa 
tions  he  returned  to  his  native  city  of  Middletown,  where  he  passed 
the  remainder  of  his  life  in  retirement,  and  where  he  died  on  the  1st 
of  November,  1841. 

Early  in  life  ALSOP  evinced  a  decided  taste  for  literature.  This 
was  naturally  encouraged  by  the  books  with  which  his  father's  library 
abounded,  and  was  also  fostered  and  directed  by  his  brother,  RICHARD 
ALSOP,  who,  though  much  older,  was  for  many  years  his  daily 
associate.  The  education,  as  well  as  literary  taste,  of  the  brothers 
was  marked  by  a  strong  similarity,  especially  in  their  acquisition  of 
foreign  languages.  The  subject  of  our  sketch  devoted  himself  with 
such  assiduity  to  this  department  of  study,  seeking  at  the  same  time 
the  society  of  intelligent  foreigners,  that  in  early  life  he  was  able  to 
converse  with  correctness  and  elegance  in  French,  Spanish,  and 
Italian.  His  library  was  supplied  with  standard  authors  of  those 
countries,  the  perusal  of  which  afforded  him  ever  a  true  source  of 
rational  enjoyment,  and  enabled  him  to  retain  through  life  the  power 
of  conversing  in  their  several  tongues. 

Although  from  the  private  character  of  his  literary  pursuits,  as 
also  from  his  retiring  habits,  ALSOP  was  little  known  beyond  the 
circle  of  his  own  immediate  associates,  yet  in  every  situation  of  life 
he  numbered  amongst  those  associates  men  of  the  most  eminent 
learning  and  taste.  By  these  he  was  duly  appreciated ;  and  after 
his  retirement  to  his  native  city  he  was  surrounded  by  a  choice  band 
of  friends,  to  whom  he  was  endeared  as  well  by  his  amiable  temper 
and  refined  feelings,  as  by  his  well-stored  mind  and  cultivated 
imagination.  Although  he  was  habitually  reserved,  his  conversation 


124  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

was  not  unfrequently  distinguished  by  a  graceful  hilarity  and  humor 
ous  turn  of  thought,  which  rendered  him  a  universal  favorite,  both 
with  the  aged  and  the  young. 

Among  the  manuscripts  which  ALSOP  left  at  his  decease,  were  a 
large  number  of  poems,  one  of  which  was  written  when  he  was  only 
fourteen  years  of  age.  Some  of  these  are  short  effusions ;  but 
among  them  are  several  poems  containing  a  number  of  hundred 
lines.  It  is  not  known  that  their  author  ever  published  one.  of  these 
compositions,  nor  was  the  extent  of  his  writings  suspected  even  by 
his  most  intimate  friends.  Pie  wrote  only  for  his  own  amusement, 
and  probably  had  no  thought  that  any  of  his  verses  would  be  given 
to  the  public.  A  biographical  sketch  of  our  author,  to  which  we 
have  been  indebted  in  preparing  the  present  one,  with  a  few  selections 
from  his  poetry,  appeared  sometime  after  his  death  in  the  "  Knicker 
bocker  magazine."  Beyond  this,  none  of  his  poems  have  yet  been 
published  ;  and  of  those  which  are  here  presented,  several  are  now 
for  the  first  time  committed  to  the  press. 

The  writings  of  the  younger  ALSOP,  although  less  melodious  and 
polished  than  those  of  his  brother,  are  yet  characterized  by  so  much 
vigor  of  thought  and  justness  of  taste,  as  to  warrant  the  belief, 
that,  had  he  prepared  them  for  publication,  they  would  have  proved 
him  fully  competent  to  sustain  undiminished  the  poetical  honors  of 
his  name. 


ELEGY. 

Soft  slumbers  now,  with  downy  fingers,  close 
Th'  o'erwearied  eye  of  labor  and  of  care  ; 

Now  nothing  wakes  to  break  night's  deep  repose, 
But  I,  who  vainly  strive  to  hush  despair. 

Slowly  I  wander  through  the  sacred  grounds, 
The  cold  and  lowly  mansions  of  the  dead  ; 

Beneath  my  steps  the  hollow  earth  resounds, 

And  moaning  spectres  near  me,  beckoning,  tread. 

Awful,  unearthly  feelings  sway  the  soul, 

As  midnight  throws  her  blackest  horrors  round  ; 

I  hear  afar  the  airy  death-bell  toll, 

And  faint,  low  wailings  rising  from  the  ground. 


JOHNALSOP.  125 

Here,  in  this  spot  obscure  she  sleeps,  I  cry, 
She,  in  whom  all  a  woman's  virtue's  shone ; 

Unhonored  here  her  mouldering  relics  lie, 

Marked  by  the  moss-grown,  rudely-sculptured  stone. 

O  thou !  who  fondly  o'er  my  cradle  hung, 
My  little,  tottering  footsteps  led  with  care, 

My  infant  woes  to  sleep  so  often  sung, 

And  watched  o'er  all  my  devious  life  with  prayer  ! 

Though  grief,  too  late,  now  prompts  the  bitter  tear, 
That  my  wild  follies  caused  thee  many  a  pang, 

Yet  may  thy  guardian  spirit,  from  its  sphere, 
Still  o'er  my  paths  with  holy  influence  hang ! 

What  though  too  oft,  when  friends  in  death  repose, 
Their  memories  vanish  from  th'  inconstant  mind, 

As  o'er  the  wreck  the  whelming  billows  close, 
And,  ceaseless  shifting,  leave  no  trace  behind — 

Yet  e'er  for  me  shall  memory's  tablets  bear 
Impressions  deep  that  time  can  ne'er  erase  ; 

The  few  slight  stains  of  error  disappear, 
And  all  thy  virtues  brighter  there  I  trace. 

O'er  her  low  grave,  by  all  but  me  forgot, 
Of  her  oblivious  fate  I  thus  complained ; 

Deplored  her  hapless  death,  my  friendless  lot, 
And  madly  HEAVEN  and  its  decrees  arraigned. 

With  grief  o'erpowered,  my  languid  frame  reclined, 
In  the  drear  gloom,  a  parent's  ashes  near ; 

A  spirit  moves  upon  the  rustling  wind, 

And  these  low-breathed,  these  soothing  sounds  I  hear  : 

Enough  for  me,  that,  numbered  with  the  dead, 
At  close  of  Summer's  day,  when  dews  descend, 

The  simple  stone  that  tells  where  I  am  laid, 

May  wake  remembrance  in  some  passing  friend. 

And  though  no  more  than  this  inglorious  stone, 

Of  all  life's  anxious  vanities  remain, 
Peace  !  Dull  oblivion  hides  not  me  alone, 

But  over  bards  and  kings  extends  his  reign. 


r  - 


126  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Why  sorrowest  them  ?    For  me  why  this  despair  ? 

Could  grief  recall  the  tenant  of  the  tomb, 
Would'st  thou  my  mortal  burden  I  should  bear, 

And  quit  for  earth  the  blest  ethereal  dome  ? 

She  ceased  —  and  now,  each  fevered  passion  hushed, 
No  more  my  falling  tears  bedew  her  sod  ; 

But,  with  new  hopes,  but  sacred  feelings  flushed, 
The  soul  holds  pure  communion  with  its  GOD. 

Now,  from  the  world  remote,  its  woes,  its  ill, 
A  holy  tranquil  sorrow  sways  the  breast, 

Bids  this  poor  heart's  wild  throbbing  pulse  be  still, 
And  gives  the  calm  of  heaven's  eternal  rest. 


LINES 

Suggested  by  reading  some  passages  in  Lord  BYRON'S  "  Childe  Harold.' 

Mark  countless  worlds  revolve  in  wondrous  round  ! 

Mark  man's  aspiring  soul ;  earth's  goodly  frame  ! 
Then,  skeptic,  speak ! — can  wonders  so  profound, 

Show,  not  their  Maker's  glory,  but  his  shame ! 

Yet  were  it  shame,  if  HE  whose  powerful  breath 
Could  to  dark  chaos  form  and  order  lend, 

Should  see  the  reasoning  spirit  quenched  in  death, 
Strong  for  no  use  and  laboring  for  no  end  ! 

Explore  each  distant  clime  :  the  rudest  race 
Adore  some  being,  good,  all-wise,  supreme  ; 

They  view  the  spirit  spurn  this  narrow  space, 
And  wake  immortal  from  life's  feverish  dream. 

Say,  ye  low-minded  skeptics  !  who,  in  spite 
Of  reason,  nature,  man  would  brutalize  ; 

Say  why  no  floating  atoms  now  unite, 

Nor  worlds  nor  men  from  chance  no  longer  rise ! 

Cursed  be  the  fiends  whose  malice  would  deprive 
Virtue  of  hope,  would  rescue  crime  from  fear ; 

Would  snatch  their  refuge  from  the  good  who  strive 
'Gainst  direst  ills,  and  all  unmurmuring  bear. 


JOHNALSOP.  127 

No  !  man's  high-soaring  soul,  with  powers  so  great, 
Sees  not  the  oblivious  tomb  her  prospect  bound ; 

Pure  spark  of  heaven  !  she  toward  th'  Eternal's  seat 
Exulting  mounts,  through  being's  endless  round. 

Yet,  as  one  exiled  long  in  foreign  lands, 

Though  summoned  home,  awhile  would  lingering  stay- 
Thus  on  the  confines  of  both  worlds  she  stands, 

And  gives  one  last  fond  look  when  called  away. 

Sigh'st  thou  for  joys  that  fame  or  grandeur  brings  ? 

Hop'st  thou  in  them  e'en  earthly  bliss  to  find  ? 
No  !  from  our  contrite  tears  the  soul's  health  springs, 

And  here,  e'en  here,  our  bliss  the  spotless  mind. 

Pleasures  of  earth,  elusive,  mock  our  hold, 

Distant  invite,  but  near  approached,  they  fly ; 
False  as  the  pictures  which  the  clouds  unfold 

In  glowing  tints  of  Summer's  evening  sky. 
See  sun -bright  Rapture  scattering  roses  round  ! 

To  Spring's  soft  breeze  her  rainbow  pinions  spread ! 
Clasp  her  fair  form,  and  in  thine  arms  is  found 

Pale  Disappointment's  wasted,  sickly  shade ! 

Like  the  gay  image  traced  by  painted  beams, 

Yon  heavenly  arch  of  many-colored  ligVit, 
Joy's  fairy-land  e'er  just  before  us  seems, 

Cheats  our  vain  hope,  and  still  deceives  our  sight ! 

Seek'st  thou  that  land  ?  Then  let  not  earth's  cold  chain, 
Which  binds  thy  frame,  thy  spirit  too  confine  ; 

Turn  to  thy  GOD  ;  in  heaven's  unclouded  reign, 
Mid  native  skies,  seek  joy's  eternal  shrine. 


AURELIA. 

With  HEBE'S  smile,  MINERVA'S  lofty  air, 
(Her  shape  more  faultless,  and  her  face  more  fair 
Than  the  famed  statue,  master-piece  of  art,) 
Theme  of  each  tongue,  and  magnet  of  each  heart, 
Resplendent  moon  among  the  twinkling  stars, 
AURELIA  beauty's  palm  unrivalled  wears. 


128  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Not  snow  more  white,  more  pure,  nor  half  so  cold, 
As  the  breast  shaded  by  those  locks  of  gold  ; 
For  snows  dissolve  before  the  genial  sun, 
Their  coldness  lose,  and  warm  to*Ocean  run ; 
But  love,  nor  hate,  e'er  moves  that  soul  of  ice, 
Almost  as  dead  to  virtue  as  to  vice. 

Matchless  alike  her  mien,  her  form,  her  face, 
Her  looks  are  transport,  and  her  movements  grace ; 
Gazing  on  her,  the  tongue  forgets  to  move, 
And  the  fixed  eye  is  eloquent  of  love  ; 
While  every  nerve  with  bursting  rapture  strung, 
Youth  maddens  at  the  sight,  and  age  grows  young. 

But  should  the  fair  her  wonted  silence  break, 
You  'd  pray  the  breathing  statue  ne'er  might  speak ; 
She,  whom  a  goddess  silent  all, adore, 
Talks,  and,  poor  drivelling  mortal !  charms  no  more. 


LINES 

To  the  Spirit  of  a  Departed  Friend. 

Soaring  to-day  through  twilight  of  the  grave, 
Thou  from  thy  prison  freed,  oh  Spirit  blest ! 

Now  looking  back  o'er  life's  tempestuous  wave, 
Smil'st  in  thy  haven  of  eternal  rest. 

Not  all  life's  joys  to  earth  could  thee  allure, 
Not  all  death's  terrors  damp  the  hallowed  fire 

Which  faith  enkindled  in  thy  bosom  pure, 
And  bade  thy  soul  on  angels'  wings  aspire. 

In  vain  the  flowers  of  Paradise  may  blow, 
Bloom  but  to  die,  in  this  cold,  dreary  clime : 

Effulgent  bliss  to  our  dark  world  below 

Scarce  turns  her  front,  in  heavenward  flight  sublime. 

And  if  her  aspect  to  this  dismal  wild 

She  turns,  't  is  sudden  clouded  o'er  with  gloom ; 
Instant  she  flies  ;  and,  beck'ning  virtue's  child, 

Bids  him  through  peril  seek  in  heaven  his  home. 


JOHNALSOP.  129 

'-^s-^-^s-^s-^s-**^^-^s-^' 

EPITAPH. 

The  following  epitaph  is  supposed  to  have  been  written  upon  the  Reverend 
ELIZUR  GOODRICH,  D.  D.,  of  Durham,  in  whose  family  the  author  lived 
while  fitting  for  college,  and  for  whom  he  ever  afterward  entertained  the 
highest  esteem  and  respect. 

In  vain  th'  aspiring  pyramid  may  raise 

The  lofty  column  to  invade  the  skies ; 
The  venal  muse  may  swell  the  trump  of  praise, 

And  feign  to  weep  where  vice  or  folly  dies. 

Not  such  the  tribute  to  meek  merit  given ; 

Here  no  proud  pageant  'gainst  oblivion  strives ; 
A  man  of  GOD,  whose  only  aim  was  Heaven, 

Here  sleeps  ;  but  ever  in  remembrance  lives. 

His  loved,  his  hallowed  memory  will  descend, 
Spotless  and  shining  to  our  latest  years, 

Graved  on  the  heart  of  many  a  sorrowing  friend, 
Embalmed  in  widows'  and  in  orphans'  tears. 

He  shunned  all  contest,  shunned  the  noisy  world ; 

Yet,  the  bold  champion  of  Religion's  cause, 
He  rode  in  thunder,  and  the  lightning  hurled 

On  guilt,  avenging  HEAVEN'S  insulted  laws. 

A  life  unsullied  graced  a  faith  sincere  ; 

In  his  blest  Saviour's  lowly  steps  he  trod ; 
Like  Him,  drew  more  by  holy  love  than  fear, 

Spoke  peace  to  man,  and  gave  his  soul  to  GOD. 


EPITAPH   ON   THE   HON.   WILLIAM   GUSHING, 

One  of  the  Justices  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States,  who  died 
September,  1810. 

Bedewed  with  tears  of  those  his  bounty  fed, 
Long  o'er  his  grave  may  fragrant  roses  bloom; 

Long  may  remembrance  of  his  goodness  shed 
Its  clear,  soft  lustre  o'er  the  darksome  tomb. 

Each  task  fulfilled — his  duty  his  delight, 
How  tranquil  set  his  sun  in  summer  skies ; 

While  its  last  parting  beams,  that  shone  so  bright, 
Point  to  his  radiant  path,  and  heavenly  prize. 


LINES 

On  a  Lady's  Shedding  Tears  after  Marriage. 

Why  borrows  Joy  pale  Sorrow's  mien  ? 

Why  fall  those  pearly  drops  so  fast  ? 
Ah !  the  full  heart  feels  bliss  too  keen, 

Yet,  trembling,  fears  it  may  not  last. 

So  have  I  seen  the  morn  of  May, 

With  face  that  showers  and  darkness  wears 
This — golden  beams  soon  brush  away, 

And  scatter  smiles  in  place  of  tears  ! 


EPIGRAM 

On  an  Ancient,  Ogling,  Painted  Belle. 

CELIA,  who,  to  the  men's  confusion, 
Fires  darts  and  eye-shots  in  profusion, 
Knows  not  that  war's  staid  laws  require, 
Under  false  colors  ne'er  to  fire. 


TO   A   COQUETTE. 
From  the  Italian  of  RONCALLI. 

Well  may  you  laugh  at  lovers'  pains ! 
Your  heart,  a  very  looking-glass, 
Receives  all  objects  as  they  pass, 

But  ne'er  the  slightest  trace  retains. 


CHLOE. 

From  the  Italian  of  ROLLI. 


Of  other  belles  words  give  an  image  faint : 

For  CHLOE  three  suffice  :  bones,  skin  and  paint. 


SELLECK     OSBORN.  131 

~^^^~^^^^^^~^^^-^^-^^^^-^^ 

SELLECK    OSBORN. 

[Born  1783.    Died  1826.] 

SELLECK  OSBORN  was  born  at  Trumbull,  in  Fairfield  County,  in 
1783.  His  parents  were  highly  respectable  for  intelligence  and 
moral  worth  ;  but,  from  their  pecuniary  circumstances,  were  unable 
to  afford  their  son  any  advantages  for  acquiring  instruction,  beyond 
those  furnished  by  a  common  English  School.  Being  naturally  of  a 
delicate  constitution,  and  thus  somewhat  unfitted  for  habits  of  active 
exercise,  he  employed  much  of  his  time,  during  his  boyish  days,  in 
the  diligent  perusal  of  such  books  as  he  was  enabled  to  obtain,  and 
thus  early  laid  the  foundation  of  his  literary  taste.  At  the  age  of 
twelve  years  he  was  apprenticed  to  the  printing  business  in  a  news 
paper  office  at  Danbury.  Here  he  continued  to  improve  his  leisure 
hours  by  diligent  reading,  and,  while  yet  young,  composed  many 
poetical  effusions,  some  of  which  were  committed  anonymously  to 
the  press,  and  attracted  much  notice  and  approbation. 

Soon  after  OSBORN  had  attained  his  majority,  he  was  induced  by 
some  of  the  prominent  members  of  the  Jeffersonian  party  to  take 
charge  of  a  newspaper  at  Litchfield,  devoted  to  their  views,  and 
entitled  "The  Witness."  The  county  which  he  now  made  his 
residence  was  a  stronghold  of  Federalism — the  times  were  marked 
by  high  political  strife — and  the  ardent  temperament  of  our  editor 
did  not  admit  the  restraints  of  a  cautious  prudence.  He  had  not 
been  many  months  engaged  in  his  new  labors,  when  the  publication 
in  his  columns  of  an  article  reflecting  upon  the  political  movements 
of  one  of  his  townsmen,  was  made  the  ground  of  a  suit  for  libel. 
Being  found  guilty,  he  was  sentenced  to  pay  a  heavy  fine ;  and  as 
he  was  both  unable  and  unwilling  to  do  this,  he  was  confined  for  one 
year  in  the  Litchfield  County  Jail.  The  sympathy  of  his  political 
friends  was  so  powerfully  excited  by  this  captivity,  which  they 
regarded  as  unjust  and  oppressive,  that  a  public  procession  was  made 
to  the  place  of  his  confinement.  WILLIAM  RAY,  in  the  "  Exordium  " 
to  his  "  Horrors  of  Slavery,"  alludes  to  this  imprisonment,  in  speak 
ing  of  the  region  of  his  birth  : 

"  A  County  where  the  Feds  prevail, 

And  SELLECK  OSBORN  pined  in  jail, 

To  prove  of  martyrdom  the  fitness, 

By  giving  to  the  world  a  Witness 

That  men  may  Freedom  have,  and  lose  her, 

Court  and  wed  Power,  and  then  abuse  her." 


132  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

After  his  release  from  confinement,  our  author  continued  for 
several  years  at  his  old  employment,  during  which,  many  poetical 
articles  from  his  pen,  called  forth  by  the  acts  of  politicians  or  the 
movements  of  parties,  acquired  for  him,  by  their  easy  rhyme  and 
pointed  sarcasm,  an  extended  notoriety.  About  the  year  1809,  he 
procured  a  Lieutenant's  commission  in  the  United  States  Army,  and 
was  subsequently  promoted  to  a  Captaincy,  in  which  command  he 
served  in  the  last  war  with  Great  Britain,  and  was  for  a  period 
stationed  on  the  Canadian  frontier.  During  the  early  part  of  his 
military  life,  he  was  married  to  a  lady  of  New  Bedford,  of  much 
personal  worth,  who  died  after  a  few  years,  the  happiness  of  which 
he  has  feelingly  commemorated  in  his  verse. 

After  the  close  of  the  war,  OSBORN  again  resumed  the  editorial 
chair,  first  at  Bennington,  in  Vermont,  and  subsequently,  for  a  number 
of  years,  at  Wilmington,  in  Delaware.  When  the  Presidential  contest 
for  1825  drew  near,  he  was  induced  to  assume  the  charge  of  a  paper 
in  the  city  of  New  York  devoted  to  the  elevation  of  Mr.  CALHOUN, 
but  soon  resigned  it,  as  it  became  apparent  that  the  cause  which  it 
advocated  was  hopeless.  Being  now  in  delicate  health,  and  weak 
ened  by  a  pulmonary  affection,  our  author  relinquished  his  more 
active  professional  duties,  and  took  up  his  residence  in  the  city  of 
Philadelphia,  where  he  had  some  years  before  contracted  a  second 
marriage.  Having  lingered  for  some  months  in  great  bodily  weak 
ness,  though  still  making  frequent  use  of  his  pen,  he  sunk  under  the 
violence  of  his  disease,  and  died  in  October,  1826. 

In  1823,  Mr.  OSBORN  published  at  Boston  a  volume  of  "Poems, 
Moral,  Sentimental,  and  Satirical,"  being  a  collection  of  many  of  his 
fugitive  articles.  Several  of  these  had  enjoyed  a  wide-spread 
popularity,  which  has  entitled  their  author  to  a  mention  amongst  the 
poetical  writers  of  his  native  commonwealth. 


THE   TREBLE   VOICE. 

That  voice  !  Oh  how  its  warblings  thrill 

Each  nerve  with  rapture  while  I  hear ; 
While  every  earthly  thought  is  still, 
And  none  but  purest  pleasures  fill 
My  senses,  crowding  at  my  ear. 

Hark !  how  it  swells  !  so  swells  my  soul 
With  joy  exalted,  pure  and  holy  ! 

It  rises  :  earth,  thy  base  control 
I  spurn — adieu,  vain  world  of  folly. 


SELLECK     OSBORN 

In  tender  cadence  now  it  falls, 

Breathes  gently  through  the  sacred  dome, 
Like  the  angelic  tone  that  calls 

A  kindred  spirit  to  its  home. 

'T  is  ended ;  but  the  lovely  strain 
Still  sweetly  dwells  in  Fancy's  ear : 

Mortal  I  find  myself  again — 
I  know  it  by  this  starting  tear. 

'T  is  not  my  present  sense  alone 

That  wakes,  sweet  LAURA,  at  thy  song; 

But  images  of  pleasures  flown 

Around  the  seat  of  memory  throng. 

For  then  I  think  of  other  days, 

When  one  with  heart  as  pure  as  thine, 

Beside  me  raised  the  hymn  of  praise, 
And  blended  all  her  soul  with  mine. 

Sing  on,  fair  warbler  :  Oh  restore 
The  dear  illusion  to  my  view ; 

To  soothe  my  widowed  heart,  once  more 
The  dream  of  past  delights  renew. 


133 


THE   SAILOR. 

"  The  wary  sea-bird  screams  afar, 
Along  the  wave  dire  omens  sweep ; 

From  the  veiled  sky  no  friendly  star 
Beams  on  the  undulating  deep ! 

"  Hark !  from  the  cliffs  of  distant  shores, 
The  Lorn  emits  his  dismal  cry ; 

The  wave  portentous  warning  roars, 

And  speaks  the  threatening  tempest  nigh. 

"  What  guardian  angel's  watchful  power 
Shall  snatch  me  from  the  angry  deep  ? 

Or  bid,  in  that  tremendous  hour, 
The  demon  of  the  waters  sleep  ? 


134  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

-*^s-^*--<^--^^r^r^/^^^~^^^r-*^^^ 

"  Or  who,  if  on  some  desert  wild 
I  drift,  weak,  famished  and  distrest, 

Shall  hush  the  sorrows  of  my  child, 
Or  soothe  LAVINIA'S  wounded  breast? 

"  Sweet  objects  of  my  early  love, 
For  you  with  aching  heart  I  mourn ; 

Far  from  your  peaceful  vale  I  rove, 
Ah  !  hopeless  ever  to  return  ! 

"  Yet  should  it  be  my  happy  lot 
To  hail  again  my  native  shore, 

Secure  within  my  humble  cot, 

I  '11  brave  the  restless  deep  no  more  !  " 

His  prayer  was  heard — the  rolling  bark 

Rode  through  the  storm  with  stubborn  pride  ; 

And  WILLIAM,  blithe  as  morning  lark, 
Flew  to  his  sweet,  enraptured  bride. 

Yet  WILL,  with  love  and  liquor  warm, 
Ere  yet  a  month  had  passed  in  glee, 

Forgot  the  terrors  of  the  storm, 

And,  singing,  squared  away  for  sea ! 


THE  RUINS. 

I  've  seen  in  twilight's  pensive  hour, 

The  moss-clad  dome,  the  mouldering  tower, 

In  awful  ruin  stand  ; 
That  dome  where  grateful  voices  sung, 
That  tower  whose  chiming  music  rung 

Majestically  grand ! 

I  've  seen,  mid  sculptured  pride,  the  tomb 
Where  heroes  slept  in  silent  gloom, 

Unconscious  of  their  fame  ; 
Those  who,  with  laureled  honors  crowned, 
Among  their  foes  spread  terror  round, 

And  gained — an  empty  name. 


SELLECK     OSBORN. 

I  've  seen,  in  death's  dark  palace  laid, 
The  ruins  of  a  beauteous  maid, 

Cadaverous  and  pale ! 
That  maiden  who,  while  life  remained, 
O'er  rival  charms  in  triumph  reigned 

The  mistress  of  the  vale. 

I  've  seen,  where  dungeon  damps  abide, 
A  youth  admired  in  manhood's  pride, 

In  mprbid  fancy  rave  ; — 
He  who,  in  reason's  happier  day, 
Was  virtuous,  witty,  nobly  gay, 

Learned,  generous,  and  brave. 

Nor  dome,  nor  tower  in  twilight  shade, 
Nor  hero  fall'n,  nor  beauteous  maid, 

To  ruin  all  consigned, 
Can  with  such  pathos  touch  my  breast, 
As,  on  the  maniac's  form  impressed, 

The  ruins  of  the  mind ! 


135 


AFFECTATION   REBUKED. 

Said  ANN  to  her  mother,  (affecting  to  pout,) 

"  That  impudent  man  I  detest ! 
I  can  't  show  my  face,  within  doors  or  without, 

But  I  meet  the  full  gaze  of  that  pest ! 

Do  n't  you  think,  my  dear  Ma,  that  a  few  hours  ago, 
After  passing  him,  (would  you  believe  it?) 

He  turned  himself  round,  and  he  stared  at  me  so — 
So  steadily — none  can  conceive  it ! " 

"  Be  cautious,  my  child,  there  is  company  here — 
And  you  may  for  imprudence  be  blamed  : 

Who  told  you  of  all  this  impertinence,  dear  ? " 
"  Why,  I  saw  it,  and  was  so  ashamed  ! " 

"  Beware  affectation,  and  vanity  too," 

The  mother  replied,  with  a  smile  : 
"  Wrhen  you  saw  him  so  steadily  looking  at  you, 

Pray  where  did  you  look,  all  the  while  ? " 


136 


POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 


PLATONIC   LOVE. 
Oh,  lady,  spare  this  throbbing  heart, 

'T  is  frail — 't  is  weak — but  't  is  not  free  : 
Not  that  I  dream  of  any  art 

To  lure  that  worthless  heart  from  me  ; 

But  still,  unconscious  of  all  guile, 

Thou  may'st  excite  forbidden  sighs, 
By  the  sly  roguery  of  that  smile, 

By  the  arch  glances  of  those  eyes — 
By  that  unstudied,  native  grace, 

That  cheers,  warms,  blesses  all  around ; 
By  that  bright,  animating  face, 

And  by  that  tongue's  bewitching  sound  : 
But  chiefly  by  the  force  of  thought, 

The  sportive  wit,  the  ready  mind, 
Are  the  sweet  fascinations  wrought, 

That  my  enchanted  senses  bind. 
******* 

A  dear  one  claims,  and  well  deserves 
My  bosom's  mansion,  and  its  stores — 

But,  hospitably,  still  reserves 

A  room,  when  friends  approach  its  doors. 

A  chamber  in  my  heart  remains, 

Free  for  the  good  and  fair: 
When  my  sweet  friend  a  visit  deigns, 

She  '11  find  a  welcome  there. 


DARTMOOR. 

Written  during  the  excitement  which  prevailed  after  the  affair  at  Dartmoor 
Prison. 

Oh  England  !  should'st  thou  e'er  again 
Force  us  to  meet  thee  on  the  main, 
The  spirit  of  the  murdered  Tar 
Shall  aggravate  the  invidious  war  ; 
Perched  on  the  shroud,  it  will  be  heard, 
Loud  as  MACDONOUGH'S  valiant  bird  ; 
And  through  thy  panic-stricken  fleet 
Scream  the  shrill  omen  of  defeat ! 


REV.     JOHN     PIERPONT.  137 


REV.   JOHN    PIERPONT. 

[Born  1785.] 

THE  Rev.  JOHN  PIERPONT  is  a  lineal  descendant  of  the  Rev.  JAMES 
PIERPONT,  the  second  minister  of  New  Haven,  who  is  supposed  to 
have  been  allied  to  the  noble  English  family  of  his  name,  which  held 
the  earldom  of  Kingston,  and  bore  the  motto  "  Pie  repone  te."  The 
grandson  of  Mr.  PIERPONT  of  New  Haven  was  a  resident  of  Litch- 
field,  where  his  son,  the  subject  of  this  sketch,  was  born,  on  the  6th 
of  April,  1785.  He  entered  Yale  College  at  fifteen  years  of  age, 
and  was  regularly  graduated  in  1804.  After  assisting  for  a  short 
time  the  Rev.  Dr.  BACKUS,  afterward  President  of  Hamilton  College, 
in  the  charge  of  an  Academy,  he  went  to  South  Carolina  in  the 
autumn  of  1805,  and  resided  as  a  private  tutor  in  the  family  of  Col. 
WILLIAM  ALSTON,  with  whom  he  remained  for  nearly  four  years. 
Here  he  commenced  the  study  of  the  law,  which,  after  his  return  to 
Connecticut,  in  1809,  he  continued  in  the  Law  School  at  Litchfield. 

In  1812,  Mr.  PIERPONT  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  Essex  County, 
Massachusetts,  and  practised  his  profession  for  a  time  in  Newbury- 
port.  Here  he  first  became  known  to  the  public  in  a  poetical 
character,  by  delivering  before  "  The  Washington  Bevevolent  Soci 
ety,"  of  Newburyport,  "  The  Portrait,"  a  patriotic  poem,  which  was 
afterward  published.  His  health  demanding  more  active  employment, 
he  relinquished  his  profession,  and  engaged  in  mercantile  transac 
tions,  first  in  Boston,  and  subsequently  in  Baltimore.  In  1816,  he 
abandoned  these  pursuits,  and  about  the  same  time  published  the 
"  Airs  of  Palestine,"  of  which  three  editions  were  issued  in  the 
course  of  two  years.  He  now  devoted  himself  to  the  study  of 
theology,  first  at  Baltimore,  and  afterward  at  the  Theological  School 
connected  with  Harvard  College.  In  October,  1818,  he  left  that 
institution,  and  in  April  of  the  following  year  was  ordained  as 
minister  of  the  Hollis  Street  Unitarian  Church,  in  Boston,  as 
successor  to  the  Rev.  Dr.  HOLLEY,  who  had  been  elected  President 
of  Transylvania  University,  in  Kentucky. 

In  1835,  in  consequence  of  ill  health,  Mr.  PIERPONT  left  the 
country,  and  passed  a  year  among  the  most  interesting  scenes  of 
foreign  travel.  He  visited  England,  France,  and  Italy,  and  from 
thence  extended  his  tour  through  Greece  into  Asia  Minor,  and  to 
Constantinople..  On  his  return  to  his  native  country,  he  resumed 


12* 


138  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

his  pastoral  charge  in  Boston,  which  he  still  retains,  although  often 
engaged  in  labors  for  the  promotion  of  other  objects  believed  to  be 
subservient  to  the  interests  of  humanity. 

The  "  Airs  of  Palestine  "  is  a  poem  of  about  eight  hundred  lines, 
in  the  heroic  measure,  designed  to  illustrate  the  influence  of  music 
upon  the  passions  of  mankind,  by  examples  chiefly  drawn  from  sacred 
history.  It  was  written  in  the  cause  of  charity,  its  recitation  having 
formed  part  of  the  exercises  of  an  evening  concert  of  sacred  music, 
for  the  benefit  of  the  poor.  It  is  the  largest  work  of  our  author,  and 
its  graceful  verse  and  glowing  imagery  have  justly  rendered  it  one 
of  the  most  popular  of  American  poems.  The  minor  and  occasional 
poems  of  Mr.  PIERPONT  have  been  numerous,  and  of  highly  varied 
character.  They  are  composed  in  almost  every  variety  of  measure, 
and  are  generally  marked  by  more  of  boldness  and  less  of  delicacy 
than  the  "Airs  of  Palestine."  They  were  collected  and  published 
with  the  latter  poem,  at  Boston,  in  a  duodecimo  volume,  in  1840. 


THE   PROPHECY.* 

When  on  the  ruins  of  Palmyra's  walls, 
Through  fleecy  clouds  the  sober  moonlight  falls, 
Trembling  among  the  ivy  leaves,  that  shade 
The  crumbling  arch  and  broken  colonnade — 
As  some  lone  bard,  that  gives  his  silver  hair 
To  float,  dishevelled,  on  the  sighing  air, 
While  glories,  long  departed,  rush  along, 
Pours  on  the  ear  of  night,  in  mournful  song, 
The  fond  remembrance  of  that  splendid  day, 
When  round  LONGINUS'  temples  twined  the  bay, 
When  on  those  towers  the  beams  of  science  shone, 
And  princes  kneeled  around  ZENOBIA'S  throne  ; — 
Some  future  minstrel  thus  his  lyre  shall  sweep, 
Where  glides  Potomac  to  the  azure  deep : 

"  Where  now  these  ruins  moulder  on  the  ground, 
Where  Desolation  walks  her  silent  round, 
The  slippery  serpent  drags  his  sinuous  trail, 
To  marble  columns  clings  the  slimy  snail, 
The  solemn  raven  croaks,  the  cricket  sings, 
And  bats  and  owlets  flap  their  sooty  wings  ; — 

*From  "The  Portrait." 


REV.     JOHN     PIERPONT. 

Orice,  a  proud  temple  rose,  with  front  sublime, 

By  Wisdom  reared,  to  brave  the  shocks  of  Time, 

And  consecrated  to  the  smiling  three, 

RELIGION,  PEACE,  and  CIVIL  LIBERTY. 

Its  earliest  priests,  in  stainless  robes  arrayed, 

By  no  threats  daunted,  by  no  arts  betrayed, 

Ne'er  let  the  censer  nor  the  olive  drop, 

Though  clouds  and  tempests  brooded  o'er  its  top. 

Time  brought  their  pious  labors  to  a  close  ; 

Others  succeeded,  and  new  scenes  arose ; 

The  hovering  tempests  fell  upon  its  walls, 

The  brooding  clouds  were  welcomed  to  its  halls, 

The  shuddering  altars  felt  the  fires  of  hell, 

The  olive  withered,  and  the  censer  fell, 

The  columns  broke,  the  trembling  arches  frowned, 

The  temple  sunk,  and  Ruin  stalks  around." 


139 


PALESTINE.* 

Here  let  us  pause  :  the  opening  prospect  view : 
How  fresh  this  mountain  air !  how  soft  the  blue, 
That  throws  its  mantle  o'er  the  lengthening  scene  ! 
Those  waving  groves — those  vales  of  living  green — 
Those  yellow  fields — that  lake's  cerulean  face, 
That  meets,  with  curling  smiles,  the  cool  embrace 
Of  roaring  torrents,  lulled  by  her  to  rest — 
That  white  cloud  melting  on  the  mountain's  breast : 
How  the  wide  landscape  laughs  upon  the  sky ! 
How  rich  the  light  that  gives  it  to  the  eye ! 

Where  lies  our  path  ? — Though  many  a  vista  call, 
We  may  admire,  but  cannot  tread  them  all. 
Where  lies  our  path  ? — A  poet,  and  inquire 
What  hills,  what  vales,  what  streams  become  the  lyre  ? 
See,  there  Parnassus  lifts  his  head  of  snow ; 
See  at  his  foot  the  cool  Cephissus  flow  ; 
There  Ossa  rises  ;  there  Olympus  towers  ; 
Between  them  Tempe  breathes  in  beds  of  flowers, 

*  From  the  "  Airs  of  Palestine." 


140  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

For  ever  verdant ;  and  there  Peneus  glides 
Through  laurels,  whispering  on  his  shady  sides. 
Your  theme  is  Music  ; — yonder  rolls  the  wave 
Where  dolphins  snatched  Arion  from  his  grave, 
Enchanted  by  his  lyre  : — Cithaeron's  shade 
Is  yonder  seen,  where  first  AMPHION  played 
Those  potent  airs,  that,  from  the  yielding  earth, 
Charmed  stones  around  him,  and  gave  cities  birth. 
And  fast  by  Haemus,  Thracian  Hebrus  creeps 
O'er  golden  sands,  and  still  for  ORPHEUS  weeps, 
Whose  gory  head,  borne  by  the  stream  along 
Was  still  melodious,  and  expired  in  song. 
There  Nereids  sing,  and  TRITON  winds  his  shell ; 
There  be  thy  path,  for  there  the  Muses  dwell. 

No,  no — a  lonelier,  lovelier  path  be  mine  ; 
Greece  and  her  charms  I  leave  for  Palestine. 
There  purer  streams  through  happier  valleys  flow, 
And  sweeter  flowers  on  holier  mountains  blow. 
I  love  to  breathe  where  Gilead  sheds  her  balm ; 
I  love  to  walk  on  Jordan's  banks  of  palm ; 
I  love  to  wet  my  foot  in  Hermori's  dews  ;  :, v  . 

I  love  the  promptings  of  ISAIAH'S  muse  ; 
In  Carmel's  holy  grots  I  '11  court  repose, 
And  deck  my  mossy  couch  with  Sharon's  deathless  rose. 


MUSIC   OF   ITALY.* 

On  Arno's  bosom,  as  he  calmly  flows, 
And  his  cool  arms  round  Vallombrosa  throws, 
Rolling  his  crystal  tide  through  classic  vales, 
Alone,  at  night,  the  Italian  boatman  sails. 
High  o'er  Mount  Alto  walks,  in  maiden  pride, 
Night's  queen — he  sees  her  image  on  that  tide, 
Now,  ride  the  wave  that  curls  its  infant  crest 
Around  his  prow,  then  rippling  sinks  to  rest ; 
Now,  glittering,  dance  around  his  eddying  oar, 
Whose  every  sweep  is  echoed  from  the  shore ; 

*  From  the  same. 


REV.     JOHN     PIERPONT.  .    :       141 

Now,  far  before  him,  on  a  liquid  bed 

Of  waveless  water,  rest  her  radiant  head. 

How  mild  the  empire  of  that  virgin  queen ! 

How  dark  the  mountain's  shade  !  How  still  the  scene  ! 

Hushed  by  her  silver  sceptre,  zephyrs  sleep 

On  dewy  leaves,  that  overhang  the  deep, 

Nor  dare  to  whisper  through  the  boughs,  nor  stir 

The  valley's  willow,  nor  the  mountain's  fir, 

Nor  make  the  pale  and  breathless  aspen  quiver, 

Nor  brush,  with  ruffling  wing,  that  glassy  river. 

Hark ! — 't  is  a  convent's  bell : — its  midnight  chime  : 
For  music  measures  even  the  march  of  time  : — 
O'er  bending  trees,  that  fringe  the  distant  shore, 
Gray  turrets  rise  : — the  eye  can  catch  no  more. 
The  boatman,  listening  to  the  tolling  bell, 
Suspends  his  oar ; — a  low  and  solemn  swell, 
From  the  deep  shade  that  round  the  cloister  lies, 
Rolls  through  the  air,  and  on  the  water  dies. 
What  melting  song  wakes  the  cold  ear  of  night  ? 
A  funeral  dirge,  that  pale  nuns,  robed  in  white, 
Chant  round  a  sister's  dark  and  narrow  bed, 
To  charm  the  parting  spirit  of  the  dead. 
Triumphant  is  the  spell !  With  raptured  ear, 
That  uncaged  spirit,  hovering,  lingers  near : 
Why  should  she  mount  ?  why  pant  for  brighter  Miss, 
A  lovelier  scene,  a  sweeter  song,  than  this  ? 


INVOCATION.* 

Oh !  Thou  Dread  Spirit !  Being's  End  and  Source  ! 
Check  thy  bright  chariot  in  its  fervid  course. 
Bend  from  thy  throne  of  darkness  and  of  fire, 
And  with  one  smile  immortalize  our  lyre. 
Amid  the  cloudy  lustre  of  thy  throne, 
Though  wreathy  tubes,  unheard  on  earth,  are  blown, 
In  sweet  accord  with  the  undying  hymn 
Of  angel  choirs  and  harping  Seraphim, 
Still  hast  thou  stooped  to  hear  a  shepherd  play, 
To  prompt  his  measures  and  approve  his  lay. 

*  From  the  same. 


142  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Hast  thou  grown  old,  Thou,  who  for  ever  livest ! 
Hast  thou  forgotten,  Thou,  who  memory  givest ! 
How,  on  the  day  thine  ark,  with  loud  acclaim, 
From  Zion's  hill  to  mount  Moriah  came, 
Beneath  the  wings  of  Cherubim  to  rest, 
In  a  rich  veil  of  Tyrian  purple  dressed  ; 
When  harps  and  cymbals  joined  in  echoing  clang, 
When  psalteries  tinkled,  and  when  trumpets  rang, 
And  white-robed  Levites  round  thine  altar  sang, 
Thou  didst  descend,  and,  rolling  through  the  crowd, 
Inshrine  thine  ark  and  altar  in  thy  shroud, 
And  fill  the  temple  with  thy  mantling  cloud  ! 
And  now,  Almighty  Father,  well  we  know, 
When  humble  strains  from  grateful  bosoms  flow, 
Those  humble  strains  grow  richer  as  they  rise, 
And  shed  a  balmier  freshness  on  the  skies. 

What  though  no  Cherubim  are  here  displayed, 
No  gilded  walls,  no  cedar  colonnade, 
No  crimson  curtains  hang  around  our  choir, 
Wrought  by  the  cunning  artisan  of  Tyre  ; 
No  doors  of  fir  on  golden  hinges  turn  ; 
No  spicy  gums  in  golden  censers  burn  ; 
No  frankincense,  in  rising  volumes,  shrouds 
The  fretted  roof  in  aromatic  clouds  ; 
No  royal  minstrel,  from  his  ivory  throne, 
Gives  thee  his  father's  numbers  or  his  own  ; — 
If  humble  love,  if  gratitude  inspire, 
Our  strain  shall  silence  even  the  temple's  choir, 
And  rival  MICHAEL'S  trump,  nor  yield  to  GABRIEL'S  lyre. 

In  what  rich  harmony,  what  polished  lays, 
Should  man  address  thy  throne,  when  Nature  pays 
Her  wild,  her  tuneful  tribute  to  the  sky ! 
Yes,  LORD,  she  sings  thee,  but  she  knows  not  why. 
The  fountain's  gush,  the  long  resounding  shore, 
The  zephyr's  whisper,  and  the  tempest's  roar, 
The  rustling  leaf  in  autumn's  fading  woods, 
The  wintry  storm,  the  rush  of  vernal  floods, 
The  summer  bower,  by  cooling  breezes  fanned, 
The  torrent's  fall,  by  dancing  rainbows  spanned, 


REV.     JOHN     PIERPONT. 


143 


The  streamlet,  gurgling  through  its  rocky  glen, 

The  long  grass,  sighing  o'er  the  graves  of  men, 

The  bird  that  crests  yon  dew-bespangled  tree, 

Shakes  his  bright  plumes,  and  trills  his  descant  free, 

The  scorching  bolt,  that,  from  thine  armory  hurled, 

Burns  its  red  path,  and  cleaves  a  shrinking  world  ; 

All  these  are  music  to  Religiqn's  ear, — 

Music,  thy  hand  awakes,  for  man  to  hear. 

Thy  hand  invested  in  their  azure  robes, 

Thy  breath  made  buoyant,  yonder  circling  globes, 

That  bound  and  blaze  along  the  elastic  wires, 

That  viewless  vibrate  on  celestial  lyres, 

And  in  that  high  and  radiant  concave  tremble, 

Beneath  whose  dome  adoring  hosts  assemble, 

To  catch  the  notes  from  those  bright  spheres  that  flow, 

Which  mortals  dream  of,  but  which  angels  know. 

Before  thy  throne  three  sister  Graces  kneel ; 
Their  holy  influence  let  our  bosoms  feel ! 
FAITH,  that  with  smiles  lights  up  our  dying  eyes ; 
HOPE,  that  directs  them  to  the  opening  skies ; 
And  CHARITY,  the  loveliest  of  the  three, 
That  can  assimilate  a  worm  to  thee. 
For  her  our  organ  breathes  ;*  to  her  we  pay 
The  heartfelt  homage  of  an  humble  lay ; 
And  while,  to  her,  symphonious  chords  we  string, 
And  Silence  listens  while  to  her  we  sing, 
While  round  thine  altar  swells  our  evening  song, 
And  vaulted  roofs  the  dying  notes  prolong, 
The  strain  we  pour  to  her,  do  Thou  approve ; 
For  LOVE  is  CHARITY,  and  THOU  art  LOVE  ! 


"PASSING    AWAY."— A   DREAM. 

Was  it  the  chime  of  a  tiny  bell, 

That  came  so  sweet  to  my  dreaming  ear — 

Like  the  silvery  tones  of  a  fairy's  shell 

That  he  winds  on  the  beach  so  mellow  and  clear, 

Alluding  to  the  cause  of  charity,  in  behalf  of  which  the  poem  was  written. 


When  the  winds  and  the  waves  lie  together  asleep, 
And  the  moon  and  the  fairy  are  watching  the  deep, 
She  dispensing  her  silvery  light, 
And  he  his  notes  as  silvery  quite, 
While  the  boatman  listens  and  ships  his  oar, 
To  catch  the  music  that  comes  from  the  shore  ? 
Hark !  the  notes,  on  my  ear  that  play, 
Are  set  to  words  : — as  they  float,  they  say, 

"  Passing  away !  passing  away ! " 

But  no :  it  was  not  a  fairy's  shell, 

Blown  on  the  beach  so  mellow  and  clear, 
Nor  was  it  the  tongue  of  a  silver  bell, 
Striking  the  hour  that  filled  my  ear, 
As  I  lay  in  my  dream ;  yet  was  it  a  chime 
That  told  of  the  flow  of  the  stream  of  time. 
For  a  beautiful  clock  from  the  ceiling  hung, 
And  a  plump  little  girl,  for  a  pendulum,  swung ; 
(As  you  've  sometimes  seen,  in  a  little  ring 
That  hangs  in  his  cage,  a  Canary  bird  swing ;) 
And  she  held  to  her  bosom  a  budding  bouquet, 
And,  as  she  enjoyed  it,  she  seemed  to  say, 

"  Passing  away !  passing  away ! " 

Oh,  how  bright  were  the  wheels,  that  told 

Of  the  lapse  of  time,  as  they  moved  round  slow  ! 
And  the  hands,  as  they  swept  o'er  the  dial  of  gold, 

Seemed  to  point  to  the  girl  below. 
And  lo  !  she  had  changed  :  in  a  few  short  hours 
Her  bouquet  had  become  a  garland  of  flowers, 
That  she  held  in  her  outstretched  hands,  and  flung 
This  way  and  that,  as  she,  dancing,  swung 
In  the  fulness  of  grace  and  of  womanly  pride, 
That  told  me  she  soon  was  to  be  a  bride  ; 
Yet  then,  when  expecting  her  happiest  day, 
In  the  same  sweet  voice  I  heard  her  say, 

14  Passing  away  !  passing  away ! " 

While  I  gazed  at  that  fair  one's  cheek,  a  shade 

Of  thought  or  care  stole  softly  over, 
Like  that  by  a  cloud  in  a  summer's  day  made, 

Looking  down  on  a  field  of  blossoming  clover. 


REV.     JOHN     PIERPONT. 


145 


The  rose  yet  lay  on  her  cheek,  but  its  flush 

Had  something  lost  of  its  brilliant  blush  ; 

And  the  light  in  her  eye,  and  the  light  on  the  wheels 

That  marched  so  calmly  round  above  her, 
Was  a  little  dimmed — as  when  evening  steals 

Upon  noon's  hot  face  : — Yet  one  could  n't  but  love  her, 
For  she  looked  like  a  mother  whose  first  babe  lay 

Rocked  on  her  breast,  as  she  swung  all  day ; 

And  she  seemed  in  the  same  silver  tone  to  say 
"  Passing  away  !  passing  away  ! " 

While  yet  I  looked,  what  a  change  there  came ! 

Her  eye  was  quenched,  and  her  cheek  was  wan ; 
Stooping  and  staffed  was  her  withered  frame, 

Yet,  just  as  busily  swung  she  on ! 
The  garland  beneath  her  had  fallen  to  dust ; 
The  wheels  above  her  were  eaten  with  rust ; 
The  hands  that  over  the  dial  swept, 
Grew  crooked  and  tarnished,  but  on  they  kept ; 
And  still  there  came  that  silver  tone 
From  the  shrivelled  lips  of  the  toothless  crone — 

(Let  me  never  forget  till  my  dying  day 

The  tone  or  the  burden  of  her  lay,) 

"  Passing  away !   passing  away  !  " 


MY   CHILD. 

I  cannot  make  him  dead ! 

His  fair  sunshiny  head 
Is  ever  bounding  round  my  study  chair  ; 

Yet  when  my  eyes,  now  dim 

With  tears,  I  turn  to  him, 
The  vision  vanishes — he  is  not  there  ! 

I  walk  my  parlor  floor, 

And,  through  the  open  door, 
I  hear  a  footfall  on  the  chamber  stair ; 

I  'm  stepping  toward  the  hall 

To  give  the  boy  a  call ; 
And  then  bethink  me  that — he  is  not  there ! 


146  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

.^^••^/•-^-•^•N^-^'^-">-X-^^ 

I  thread  the  crowded  street ; 

A  satchelled  lad  I  meet, 
With  the  same  beaming  eyes  and  colored  hair : 

And,  as  he  's  running  by, 

Follow  him  with  my  eye, 
Scarcely  believing  that — he  is  not  there  ! 

I  know  his  face  is  hid 

Under  the  coffin  lid  ; 
Closed  are  his  eyes  ;  cold  is  his  forehead  fair ; 

My  hand  that  marble  felt ; 

O'er  it  in  prayer  I  knelt ; 
Yet  my  heart  whispers  that — he  is  not  there ! 

I  cannot  make  him  dead ! 

When  passing  by  the  bed, 
So  long  watched  over  with  parental  care, 

My  spirit  and  my  eye 

Seek  it  inquiringly, 
Before  the  thought  comes  that — he  is  not  there  ! 

When,  at  the  cool,  gray  break 

Of  day,  from  sleep  I  wake, 
With  my  first  breathing  of  the  morning  air 

My  soul  goes  up,  with  joy, 

To  HIM  who  gave  my  boy ; 
Then  comes  the  sad  thought  that — he  is  not  there  ! 

When  at  the  day's  calm  close, 

Before  we  seek  repose, 
I  'm  with  his  mother,  offering  up  our  prayer — 

Whate'er  I  may  be  saying, 

I  am,  in  spirit,  praying 
For  our  boy's  spirit,  though — he  is  not  there ! 

Not  there  ! — where,  then,  is  he  ? 

The  form  I  used  to  see 
Was  but  the  raiment  that  he  used  to  wear. 

The  grave,  that  now  doth  press 

Upon  that  cast-off  dress, 
Is  but  his  wardrobe  locked ; — he  is  not  there ! 


REV.     JOHN     PIERPONT.  147 

-N^%^^^X^>^-X-^-W^W^^^-^^-X^-X^-\^^^-V^^^-^- 

He  lives ! — In  all  the  past 

He  lives  ;  nor,  to  the  last, 
Of  seeing  him  again  will  I  despair ; 

In  dreams  I  see  him  now  ; 

And,  on  his  angel  brow, 
I  see  it  written — "  Thou  shalt  see  me  there  /" 

Yes,  we  all  live  to  GOD  ! 

Father,  thy  chastening  rod 
So  help  us,  thine  afflicted  ones  to  bear, 

That,  in  the  spirit-land, 

Meeting  at  thy  right  hand, 
'T  will  be  our  heaven  to  find  that — he  is  there ! 


THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS. 

The  pilgrim  fathers — where  are  they  ? 

The  waves  that  brought  them  o'er 
Still  roll  in  the  bay,  and  throw  their  spray 

As  they  break  along  the  shore  ; 
Still  roll  in  the  bay,  as  they  rolled  that  day, 

When  the  May-Flower  moored  below, 
When  the  sea  around  was  black  with  storms, 

And  white  the  shore  with  snow. 

The  mists,  that  wrapped  the  pilgrim's  sleep, 

Still  brood  upon  the  tide  ; 
And  his  rocks  yet  keep  their  watch  by  the  deep, 

To  stay  its  waves  of  pride. 
But  the  snow-white  sail,  that  he  gave  to  the  gale, 

When  the  heavens  looked  dark,  is  gone  ; 
As  an  angel's  wing,  through  an  opening  cloud, 

Is  seen,  and  then  withdrawn. 

The  pilgrim  exile — sainted  name  ! 

The  hill,  whose  icy  brow 
Rejoiced,  when  he  came,  in  the  morning's  flame, 

In  the  morning's  flame  burns  now. 


148  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

^_^_^X-s_x-s_>--v_^-^~v_^^^-^--^^^ 

And  the  moon's  cold  light,  as  it  lay  that  night 

On  the  hill-side  and  the  sea, 
Still  lies  where  he  laid  his  houseless  head ; 

But  the  pilgrim — where  is  he  ? 

The  pilgrim  fathers  are  at  rest : 

When  Summer's  throned  on  high, 
And  the  world's  warm  breast  is  in  verdure  dressed, 

Go,  stand  on  the  hill  where  they  lie. 
The  earliest  ray  of  the  golden  day 

On  that  hallowed  spot  is  cast ; 
Arid  the  evening  sun,  as  he  leaves  the  world, 

Looks  kindly  on  that  spot  last. 

The  pilgrim  spirit  has  not  fled : 

It  walks  in  noon's  broad  light ; 
And  it  watches  the  bed  of  the  glorious  dead, 

With  the  holy  stars,  by  night. 
It  watches  the  bed  of  the  brave  who  have  bled, 

And  shall  guard  this  ice-bound  shore, 
Till  the  waves  of  the  bay  where  the  May-Flower  lay, 

Shall  foam  and  freeze  no  more. 


DIRGE, 

Sung  by  the  Boston  Handel  and  Haydn  Society,  at  the  Funeral  Obsequies 
of  Dr.  SPURZHEIM. 

Stranger,  there  is  bending  o'er  thee 

Many  an  eye  with  sorrow  wet  : 
All  our  stricken  hearts  deplore  thee  : 

Who,  that  knew  thee,  can  forget  ? 
Who  forget  what  thou  hast  spoken  ? 

Who,  thine  eye — thy  noble  frame  ? 
But,  that  golden  bowl  is  broken, 

In  the  greatness  of  thy  fame. 

Autumn's  leaves  shall  fall  and  wither 
On  the  spot  where  thou  shalt  rest ; 

'T  is  in  love  we  bear  thee  thither, 
To  thy  mourning  Mother's  breast. 


REV.     JOHN     PIERPONT. 

For  the  stores  of  science  brought  us, 
For  the  charm  thy  goodness  gave 

To  the  lessons  thou  hast  taught  us, 
Can  we  give  thee  but  a  grave  ? 

Nature's  priest,  how  pure  and  fervent 

Was  thy  Avorship  at  her  shrine  ! 
Friend  of  man,  of  GOD  the  servant, 

Advocate  of  truths  divine  ; 
Taught  and  charmed  as  by  no  other 

We  have  been,  and  hoped  to  be  ; 
But,  while  waiting  round  thee,  Brother, 

For  thy  light,  't  is  dark  with  thee. 

Dark  with  thee  !  No !  thy  Creator, 

All  whose  creatures  and  whose  laws 
Thou  didst  love,  shall  give  thee  greater 

Light  than  earth's  as  earth  withdraws, 
To  thy  GOD  thy  godlike  spirit 

Back  we  give  in  filial  trust ; 
Thy  cold  clay — we  grieve  to  bear  it 

To  its  chamber — but  we  must. 


149 


DEDICATION  HYMN. 

O  Thou,  to  whom,  in  ancient  time, 

The  lyre  of  Hebrew  bards  was  strung, 

Whom  kings  adored  in  songs  sublime, 

And  prophets  praised  with  glowing  tongue,- 

Not  now,  on  Zion's  height  alone, 
Thy  favored  worshipper  may  dwell, 

Nor  where,  at  sultry  noon,  thy  Son 
Sat,  weary,  by  the  patriarch's  well. 

From  every  place  below  the  skies, 

The  grateful  song,  the  fervent  prayer — 

The  incense  of  the  heart — may  rise 
To  heaven,  and  find  acceptance  there. 

In  this  thy  house,  whose  doors  we  now 
For  social  worship  first  unfold, 


150  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

To  Thee  the  suppliant  throng  shall  bow, 
While  circling  years  on  years  are  rolled. 

To  Thee  shall  age,  with  snowy  hair, 
And  strength  and  beauty,  bend  the  knee, 

And  childhood  lisp,  with  reverend  air, 
Its  praises  and  its  prayers  to  thee. 

O  Thou,  to  whom,  in  ancient  time, 
The  lyre  of  prophet  bards  was  strung, 

To  thee,  at  last,  in  every  clime, 

Shall  temples  rise,  and  praise  be  sung ! 


WARREN'S   ADDRESS 
To  the  American  Soldiers,  before  the  Battle  of  Bunker  Hill. 

Stand  !  the  ground  's  your  own,  my  braves ! 
Will  ye  give  it  up  to  slaves  ? 
Will  ye  look  for  greener  graves  ? 

Hope  ye  mercy  still  ? 
What 's  the  mercy  despots  feel ! 
Hear  it  in  that  battle  peal ! 
Read  it  on  yon  bristling  steel ! 

Ask  it — ye  who  will ! 

Fear  ye  foes  who  kill  for  hire  ? 
Will  ye  to  your  homes  retire  ? 
Look,  behind  you !  they  're  a-fire  ! 

And,  before  you,  see 
Who  have  done  it ! — From  the  vale 
On  they  come  ! — and  will  ye  quail  ? 
Leaden  rain  and  iron  hail 

Let  their  welcome  be  ! 

In  the  GOD  of  battles  trust! 

Die  we  may — and  die  we  must : — 

But,  oh,  where  can  dust  to  dust 

Be  consigned  so  well, 
As  where  heaven  its  dews  shall  shed 
On  the  martyred  patriot's  bed, 
And  the  rocks  shall  raise  their  head, 

Of  his  deeds  to  tell ! 


MRS.     EMMA     WILLARD.  151 


MRS.    EMM  A   WILLARD. 

[Born  1787.] 

MRS.  EMMA  WILLARD  is  a  daughter  of  the  late  SAMUEL  HART,  of 
Berlin,  where  she  was  born  in  February,  1787.  Her  father  was 
descended  on  the  maternal  side  from  THOMAS  HOOKER,  the  first 
minister  of  Hartford,  and  on  the  paternal  from  STEPHEN  HART,  a 
deacon  of  Mr.  HOOKER'S  church  at  Cambridge,  and  his  companion 
across  the  wilderness.  The  subject  of  our  sketch  has  been  long  and 
favorably  known  to  the  public,  by  her  devotion  to  the  cause  of  female 
education,  and  by  the  many  improvements  which  she  has  labored  not 
unsuccessfully  to  introduce  in  its  various  departments.  The  love  of 
teaching  appears  to  be  a  "  ruling  passion "  of  her  mind,  and  was 
developed  in  her  early  years.  After  receiving  the  advantages  of  the 
common  schools,  and  enjoying  the  instruction  for  two  winters  of  Dr. 
MINER,  then  an  eminent  teacher  at  the  Berlin  Academy,  she  took 
the  charge,  at  sixteen  years  of  age,  of  a  district  school  in  her  native 
town.  The  following  year  she  opened  a  select  school,  and  in  the 
summer  of  the  next  year  was  placed  at  the  head  of  the  Berlin 
Academy.  During  this  period,  while  engaged  at  home  throughout 
the  summer  and  winter  in  the  capacity  of  instructress,  she  managed 
in  the  spring  and  autumn  to  attend  one  or  other  of  the  two  boarding 
schools  at  Hartford. 

During  the  spring  of  1807,  Miss  HART  received  invitations  to  take 
charge  of  Academies  in  three  different  states,  and  accepted  that 
from  Westfield,  in  Massachusetts.  She  remained  there  but  a  few 
weeks,  when,  upon  a  second  and  more  pressing  invitation,  she  went 
to  Middlebury,  in  Vermont.  Here  she  assumed  the  charge  of  a 
Female  Academy,  which  she  retained  for  two  years.  The  school 
was  liberally  patronized,  and  general  satisfaction  rewarded  the  efforts 
of  its  Preceptress.  In  1809,  she  resigned  her  Academy,  and  was 
united  in  marriage  to  Dr.  JOHN  WILLARD,  then  Marshal  of  the 
District  of  Vermont,  and  for  several  years  a  leader  of  the  Republican 
party  in  that  state. 

In  1814,  Mrs.  WILLARD  was  induced  to  establish  a  Boarding 
School  in  Middlebury,  and  formed  a  determination  to  effect  an  import 
ant  change  in  female  education,  by  the  introduction  of  a  class  of 
schools  of  a  higher  character  than  any  which  had  been  established 
in  the  country  before.  She  applied  herself  assiduously  to  increase 


152 


POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 


her  own  personal  abilities  as  a  teacher,  by  the  diligent  study  of 
branches  with  which  she  had  before  been  unacquainted.  She  intro- 
ducedLnew  studies  into  her  school,  and  invented  new  methods  of 
teaching.  She  also  prepared  "  An  Address  to  the  Public,"  in  which 
she  proposed  "a  plan  for  improving  female  education,"  Having 
determined  on  removing  her  Institution  to  Waterford,  in  the  state 
of  New  York,  in  the  summer  of  1818,  Mrs.  WILLARD,  at  the  earnest 
solicitation  (if  a  friend,  sent  a  copy  of  her  "  Plan "  to  Governor 
CLINTON,  who  gave  it  his  hearty  concurrence.  At  the  ensuing 
session  of  the  New  York  Legislature,  he  recommended  the  project, 
and  an  influential  member  from  Waterford  submitted  the  "  Plan." 
An  act  was  passed  to  incorporate  the  proposed  institution  at  Water- 
ford,  and  another  to  give  to  Female  Academies  a  share  in  the 
literature  fund. 

During  the  spring  of  1819,  Mrs.  WILLARD  removed  to  Waterford, 
and  opened  her  school  early  in  the  ensuing  summer.  The  higher 
mathematics  were  introduced,  and  the  course  of  study  was  made 
sufficiently  complete  to  qualify  the  pupils  for  any  station  in  life.  In 
the  spring  of  1821,  difficulties  attending  the  securing  a  proper  building 
for  the  school  in  Waterford,  Mrs.  WILLARD  again  determined  upon 
a  removal.  The  citizens  of  Troy  offered  liberal  inducements,  and 
in  May,  1821,  the  "Troy  Female  Seminary"  was  opened,  under 
flattering  auspices,  and  success  crowned  the  indefatigable  exertions 
of  our  authoress.  Since  that  period  the  institution  has  been  well 
known  to  the  public,  and  for  seventeen  years  the  name  of  Mrs. 
WILLARD  was  identified  with  that  of  her  favorite  "  Seminary."  In 
the  autumn  of  1830,  having  been  left  a  widow  for  five  years,  and  being 
now  in  impaired  health,  she  left  the  country,  and  sailed  for  France. 
She  resided  in  Paris  for  several  months,  and  from  thence  visited 
England  and  Scotland,  and  returned  the  following  year.  After  her 
return  she  published  a  volume  of  her  travels,  the  avails  of  which, 
amounting  to  twelve  hundred  dollars,  were  devoted  to  the  cause  of 
female  education  in  Greece.  It  may  be  proper  to  add  that  she 
appropriated  the  avails  of  one  or  two  other  publications  also  to  the 
same  object.  In  1838,  Mrs.  WILLARD  resigned  the  charge  of  the 
Troy  Seminary,  and  has  since  resided  principally  in  Connecticut. 
Education  has  still  been  her  favorite  subject  of  study,  and  she  has 
given  much  attention  to  the  improvement  of  common  schools.  Her 
present  residence  is  Hartford,  where  she  is  now  preparing  for 
publication  a  "  Manual  of  American  History,  for  the  use  of  Schools." 
The  merits  of  her  "  Geography,"  "  United  States  History,"  and 
"  Universal  History,"  have  been  attested  by  their  very  general  use 
in  seminaries  of  education. 

The  poetical  compositions  of  Mrs.  WILLARD  have  been  few,  and 
were  chiefly  comprised  in  a  small  volume  printed  in  1830.  At  the 
Celebration  of  the  second  Centennial  Anniversary  of  the  settlement 


of  Farmington,  in  1840,  an  historical  poem  from  her  pen,  entitled  £ 
"  Our  Fathers,"  was  read  by  a  friend,  after  an  oration  by  the  Rev.  J 
Mr.  PORTER,  of  New  Milford.     On  the  evening  of  the  same  day,  at 
a  kind  of  historical  party,  at  which  ancient  costumes  and  usages 
were  for  the  time  revived,  the  poem  which  succeeds  this  sketch  was 
recited  to  a  group  of  merry  auditors.     The  native  humor  of  the  piece 
is  heightened  by  the  fact,  that  the  events,  the  localities,  and  the 
personages  were  all  strictly  real,  and  "  Ensign  HART  "  and  "  little 
SAMMY"  were  no  other  than  the  grandfather  and  father  of  the 
authoress. 

We  should  be  pleased  to  present  the  reader  with  the  "Ocean 
Hymn,"  "  My  own  Sunny  France,"  and  other  pleasant  melodies 
from  the  same  pen ;  but  the  length  of  the  poem  which  we  have 
chosen,  and  which  we  publish  entire,  engrosses  all  the  space  at  our 
command. 


BRIDE-STEALING. 

A  Tale  of  New  England's  Middle  Age. 

They  who  across  the  Atlantic  came, 
Our  earliest  sires,  are  known  to  fame. 
But  where  's  the  book,  or  where 's  the  page, 
That  well  depicts  our  MIDDLE  AGE  ? 
The  tale  that  here  is  said  or  sung, 
Is  from  Tradition's  faithful  tongue. 

Our  heroine's  name,  we  're  grieved  to  say, 
Was  unpoetic  TABITHA. 
Yet 't  is  reported  she  was  fair, 
As  ELLENS  or  LOUISAS  are ; 
With  cheek  as  ruddy,  eye  as  bright, 
With  form  as  fine,  and  step  as  light ; 
In  full  expectance  too  of  fortune, 
The  daughter  of  rich  ISAAC  NORTON  : 
And  she  could  brew,  and  wash,  and  bake, 
And  weave,  and  knit,  and  mend,  and  make — 
The  little  or  the  great  wheel  twirl, 
And  was,  all  said,  "  a  working  girl." 
No  wonder,  then,  despite  her  name, 
Suitors,  or  rather  "  sparks,"  there  came. 

Though  loth  to  own,  we  can  't  deny, 
She  had  a  spice  of  coquetry ; 


154  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

— ^N^^\_^^^-N-*^^-X^--^^X^->wX-\^^^^^-^X-^^-^^ 

So  off  at  once  she  did  not  turn  'em. 

At  spinning-spell,  given  Reverend  BURNHAM, 

These  rivals  first  began  to  see, 

She  favored  most  tall  ISAAC  LEE. 

For  when  she  passed  the  button  round, 

'Twixt  ISAAC'S  broad  hands  it  was  found ! 

And  when  they  formed  the  circle  gay, 

And  danced  around,  and  sung  away, 

And  't  was  her  chance,  a  mate  to  seek, 

She  turned  to  him,  with  blushing  cheek*: 

Thoii^h  nothing  ^bashful  ISAAC  spoke, 

Tftey  fancied  triumph  in  his  look. 

But  then  arose  their  manly  pride — 

And  so,  their  jealous  throes  to  hide, 

They  judged,  in  all  good  nature  seeming, 

Upon  his  glove,  at  pawn-redeeming ; — 

To  hold  the  candle,  they  her  pick, 

And  bade  him — kiss  the  candlestick. 

Of  all  these  rivals  there  was  none, 
So  inly  stirred  as  BURNHAM'S  son. 
Despite  his  father's  lessons  ample, 
And  elder  brothers,  for  a  sample, 
And  spite  of  intellect  capacious, 
He  was  high-tempered,  and  rapacious — 
And  all  unkindled  would  take  fire  ; 
Such  BURNHAM'S  youngest  son,  JOSIAH. 

Grave  and  sedate — of  twenty-three — 
Of  giant  mould — was  ISAAC  LEE. 
So  slow  his  parts,  't  is  said  that  once, 
In  school,  the  master  called  him  dunce. 
But  then,  to  pass  the  censure  by, 
For  salvo,  made  this  prophecy — 
"  Like  winter  apple  he  'd  be  found, 
Slower  to  ripen,  but  more  sound." 
His  ancestors,  true  men  of  fame, 
From  Colchester,  in  England,  came ; 
And  his  descendants  claim  the  honor 
To  trace  their  line  to  Bishop  BONNER. 
In  Kensington's  first  burying  ground, 
At  Christian-Lane,  may  now  be  found, 


MRS.     EMMA     WILLARD. 

->^-V_/~^-V-'-N_'-^'^>-\_^-\_'-^^ 

Midst  broken  stones,  with  moss  o'erspread, 

And  doleful  figures  of  death's  head, 

One,  sacred  to  the  memory, 

Of.IsAAc's  grandsire,  STEPHEN  LEE. 

W^th  thirteen  more,  he  settled  here, 

Frpm  Tunxis,*  Berlin's  pioneer. 

But  ISAAC,  with  his  sire,  I  ween, 

Dtwelt  where  New  Britain's  spires  are  seen. 

(l$ew  Britain  called  as  we  are  told, 

Te  well  distinguish  from  the  old.) 

Physician  he,  and  still  we  trace          \ 

A* Doctor,  where  the  LEES  have  place. ^v 

j¥s  was  the  fashion  of  the  day, 
S«  ISAAC  wooed  his  TABITHA. 
But  if  in  Meeting-House  they  met, 
The  men  on  one  side  all  were  set ; 
The  front  rank  to  the  grandsires  given, 
Nearest  the  priest,  as  nearest  heaven. 
Then  came  the  fathers,  hale  and  strong, 
Anjl  all  behind,  the  ruddy  young. 
While,  on  the  left,  with  ranks  the  same, 
The  women  in  their  order  came. 
Each  in  his  seat  was  early  centered, 
Each  reverent  rose,  when  BURN  HAM  entered. 
Ml  meekly  bowed  their  heads  to  pray, 
Nor  lovers'  thoughts  allowed  to  stray ; 
Bmt  'twixt  the  singing  and  the  text, 
T«  right  and  left  their  glances  mixt. 

But  mighty  difference  all  believed  in 
'Twixt  Sunday  morn,  and  Sunday  evenin'. 
Our  »lovers,  alfbad  customs  scorning, 
Never  but  once,  sat  up  till  morning ; 
Wheja  ISAAC,  in  a  sheepish  plight, 
His  mare  rode  home,  in  broad  daylight ! 

But 't  was  no  matter — 't  was  long  a'ter, 
He  'd  "asked  the  sire,  to  woo  the  daughter ; 
And  that  same  week  his  father  went, 
To  Lower-Lane,  to  ask  consent ; 

*  Tunxis — the  Indian  name  of  Farmington. 


155 


156  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

When  all  agreed,  as  was  expected, 
The  families  should  be  connected. 
And  then  by  Mrs.  NORTON  stirred, 
The  mug  of  flip  confirmed  the  word  ; 
A  custom  not  to  be  commended, 
And  honored  best,  when  soonest  ended. 

Now  ISAAC'S  wedding  was  close  by, 
Fixed  for  the  tenth  day  of  July  ; — 
So  say  the  records  ;  and,  in  short,  he 
Wed  that  day,  seventeen  hundred  forty : 
Which  makes  my  tale  appropriate  ;          •'• 
The  event,  the  time  we  celebrate,      •"  ;V  f|  •_ 
Full  in  the  middle  doth  divide,  ~  ja, 

One  century,  on  either  side.* 

Excuse  me — I  'm  before  my  story ; 
The  bride  of  course  was  in  her  glory  ; 
The  youngsters  all  at  beck  ; — and  they     » 
Must  each  bring  lass,  as  she  should  say.  • 
But  she  sent  lads,  to  make  all  pleasant, 
For  those,  their  flames  were,  for  the  present. 
To  one  she  said,  you  bring  DESIRE, 
Another  PATIENCE,  or  BETHIAH  ; 
And  so  as  soon  as  he  was  sent, 
Straight  to  the  father's  house  he  went ;    • 
And  finds  her,  as  the  wheel  she  twirls, 
With  mammy,  and  the  boys  and  girls — 
And  though  all  know  for  what  he  's  comeji 
She  's  asked  to  step  to  t'  other  room :         , 
And  then  he  says,  "  May  I,  Miss  SUE, 
To  TABBY'S  wedding  wait  on  you  ? " 
Consent  obtained,  he  next  in  course, 
His  father  asks  for  loan  of  horse  ; 
Then  on  the  wedding  afternoon, 
He  rides  to  claim  the  promised  boon. 
Her  pillion  blue,  to  door  she  brings ; 
He  puts  it  on,  and  up  she  springs ; 
And,  as  her  arm  around  is  thrown, 
A  happier  soul  could  not  be  known. 


*  The  reader  will  bear  in  mind  that  this  poem  was  read  at  the  evening 
party  which  followed  the  Centennial  Celebration  at  Farmington,  in  1840. 


P" 

MRS.     EMMA     W  I  L  L  A  R  D  . 

s~*-s~^s-^^-s-*^^^^^s~^r^~^^^^^ 

He,  of  a  Lord  might  envy  fix, 

Who  rides,  and  hates,  in  coach-and-six. 

Whoe'er  events  of  note  relates, 
Should  places  give,  as  well  as  dates ; 
To  Worthington,  then  with  me  go, 
That  beauteous  hill,  and  look  below; 
O'er  earth's  domain  a  fairer  vale, 
Ne'er  swept  the  summer's  passing  gale. 
Westward  descending,  half-way  go, 
To  where  the  brook  doth  gently  flow : 
There,  where  another  road  you  meet, 
The  NORTONS  had  their  earliest  seat. 
'T  is  gone — but  still  doth  memory 
That  brown,  old-fashioned  house  descry  : 
No  paint  or  plaster  ever  stood, 
Upon  its  walls  and  timbers  rude. 
It  was,  (if  right  I  have  the  spelling,) 
A  "  lean-to,"  double-lighted  dwelling : 
There  gathered,  was  the  NORTON  clan, 
Matron  and  maid,  and  child  and  man. 
All  wore  the  clothes  of  Sabbath-day,* 
But  beauty's  charm  wore  TABITHA. 

'T  is  well  remembered,  of  that  wedding 
Not  one  was  slighted  at  the  bidding ; 
And  on  they  came,  in  troops  along, 
A  merry  and  a  jocund  throng. 
First,  decked,  as  bridegroom  grave  should  be, 
And  mounted  well,  rode  ISAAC  LEE. 
His  father,  Doctor  LEE,  with  dame 
On  pillion  snug,  soon  after  came. 
His  uncle,  Deacon  JONATHAN, 
With  Reverend  BURNHAM,  next  rode  on. 
And  thither  hied,  in  friendly  part, 
NORTON'S  next  neighbor,  Ensign  HART, 
Whose  comely  spouse  was,  when  he  took  her, 
The  modest  maiden,  MARY  HOOKER. 
They  walked  with  firm  and  even  mien, 
Their  little  SAMMY  led  between. 

*  Pronounced  vulgarly,  at  that  period,  Sabba'-day. 

^X-v_/-X 

14 


158  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

And  of  those  HARTS,  the  whole  three  brothers, 

That  wived  three  HOOKERS,  came  with  others  ; — 

THOMAS  and  JOHN,  and  HEZEKIAH, 

ISAAC  and  NAT.  and  ZACHARIAH  : 

And  there  came  DEMINGS,  COWLES  and  FOOTS, 

BECKLEYS  and  BUCKLERS,  NORTHS  and  ROOTS  ; 

GILBERTS  and  PORTERS,  sons  and  fathers, 

PECKS,  SMITHS  and  BOOTHS,  with  JUDDS  and  MATHERS  ; 

The  LEWIS  and  the  ANDREWS  clan, 

And  all  the  STANLEYS  to  a  man. 

Now  all  the  wedding  guests  were  met, 
And  all  in  order  due  were  set. 
Uprose  the  pair — uprose  the  priest — 
They  owned  their  union,  and  he  blest ; 
Then  pious  exhortation  made, 
And  long  with  solemn  fervor  prayed ; 
And  when  the  knot  full  fast  was  tied, 
He  led  the  way  to  kiss  the  bride. 

Then  cake  went  round,  and  other  matters, 
Handed  on  well-scoured  pewter  platters. 
Well  shone  his  laughing  teeth  on  black, 
The  Ensign's  negro,  good  old  JACK, 
Borrowed  at  need, — the  only  waiter 
Save  NORTON'S  TOM  ; — who  brought  forth — platter? 
Or  what 's  that  lordly  dish  so  rare, 
That  glitters  forth  in  splendor's  glare  ? 
"  Tell  us  Miss  NORTON,*  is  it  silver  ? 
Is  it  from  China,  or  Brazil,  or" — 
Thus  all  together,  on  they  ran ; 
Quoth  the  good  dame,  "  't  is  a  TIN  PAN — 
The  first  made  in  the  colony ; 
The  maker  PATTISON  's  just  by — 
From  Ireland,  in  the  last  ship  o'er — 
You  all  can  buy,  for  he  '11  make  more." 

Next  screaked  the  tuning  violin, 
Signal  for  dancing  to  begin, — 
And  goodly  fathers  thought  no  sin, 

*  The  bride's  mother.     Married  ladies  then  universally  received  the  title 
of  "Miss,"  in  New  England. 


MRS.     EMMA     WILLARD. 


169 


When  priest  was  by,  and  at  a  wedding, 

«  Peggy  and  Molly"  to  be  treading. 

Nay — priest  himself,  in  cushion  dance, 

At  marriage  feast  would  often  prance. 

The  pair  of  course  led  up  the  ball, 

But  ISAAC  liked  it  not  at  all. 

Shuffle  and  cut,  he  would  not  do, 

Just  bent  his  form,  the  time  to  show, 

As  beaux  and  ladies  all  do  now : 

And  when  the  first  eight-reel  was  o'er, 

Stood  back  to  wall,  and  danced  no  more  ; 

But  watched  the  rest,  above  them  rising, 

Now  chatting — then  thus  criticising : 

"  When  Christian  fathers  play  the  fool, 

Fast  learn  the  children,  at  such  school ; 

Better  it  were  to  mind  the  soul, 

And  make  the  half-way  covenant  whole  ; 

And  priest,  when  son  like  that  he  sees, 

Were  best  at  home,  and  on  his  knees." 

His  eye  upon  young  BURN  HAM  fell ; 

He  watched  him  close,  and  read  him  well : 

Among  his  set  detected  signs, 

Then  warned  his  bride  of  their  designs. 

"  Beware,"  he  whispered,  "  BURNHAM'S  gang; 

Villain  !  he  '11  one  day  surely  hang. 

They  mean,  my  gentle  love,  to  steal  thee  ;* 

Be  silent,  nor  let  looks  reveal  thee  ; 

Still  keep  by  me,  and  fear  no  harm, 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  this  arm." 

She  said,  "  I  will  obey — not  must, 

Thy  head,  thy  arm, — thy  heart  I  trust." 

BURNHAM  approached — "  Should  he  have  pleasure, 

With  the  fair  bride  to  tread  a  measure  ?" 

"  Sorry  she  was,  but  truth  be  spoken, 

The  heel-tap  from  her  shoe  was  broken  ; 

Yon  ugly  chink  upon  the  floor, 

Had  snapped  it  off  an  inch  or  more." 

*  To  "steal  the  bride"  was,  in  those  days,  for  a  party  of  young  men, 
accompanied  by  some  young  women,  to  carry  her  off,  take  her  junketing  about 
to  neighboring  taverns,  and  bring  her  home  the  next  day.  It  was  a  coarse  jest; 
and  not  unfrequently  a  malicious  one,  got  up  by  some  disappointed  rival. 


160  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

^-^~^^r^^^*^*^^s~^-^r~^s-^-^~^^^ 

With  look  displeased,  the  youth  withdrew, 
Much  doubting  if  she  spoke  him  true. 
To  MERCY  HART,  away  he  posted, 
Who  came,  and  thus  the  bride  accosted  : 
"  O  TABBY  !  come  along  with  me, 
I  '11  show  you  something  rare  to  see." 
"  Indeed,  dear  MERCY,  I  can  't  go, 
My  stay-lace" — and  she  whispered  low. 
"  Well  then,  Miss  LEE,  if  you  ca  n't  come, 
And  see  your  friends,  we  'd  best  go  home." 
In  vain — she  could  not  tempt  the  bride, 
To  quit,  like  EVE,  her  ADAM'S  side. 

Now  came  the  parting  good-byes  on — 
LEE  whispered  few  words,  and  was  gone ; 
And  in  a  short  five  minutes  more, 
By  movement  quick,  she  gained  her  door — 
Drew  fast  the  bolt — but  straight  pursue 
With  riot,  the  confederate  crew. 
One  mounted  on  fleet  steed  was  near, 
The  bride,  when  stolen,  off  to  bear. 
Now,  at  the  door  with  shout  and  din, 
They  called  aloud,  to  let  them  in. 
"  Quick  !  Open  !  or  the  door  we  break ! " 
Down  falls  the  door,  with  crash  and  crack ! 
What  saw  those  graceless  felons  then  ? 
A  timid  woman  ?     Aye — a  man  ! 
And  more  than  man,  he  seemed  to  be, 
As,  armed  with  club,  stood  ISAAC  LEE  ! 
Darted  his  eye  indignant  fire  ; 
Thundered  his  voice  with  righteous  ire ! 
"  Back  !  Villains  !  Back  !— The  man  is  dead, 
Who  lifts  a  hand  to  touch  that  head ! " 
They  stood  aghast : — A  moment  gone 
Mad  and  inebriate,  all  rushed  on. 
"  Seize  /urn,"  cried  BURNHAM,  with  a  scoff, 
"  While  I  take  her,  and  bear  her  off!" 
Ere  the  word  ended,  down  he  fell ; 
LEE'S  giant  blow  had  lighted  well. 
And  quick  and  oft  those  strokes  descended ; 
And  when  that  battle  fierce  was  ended, 


MRS.     EMMA     WILLARD.  161 

^^^X-^-\_^^wX-X^^~^-V-^~N^-X^^ 

Three  men  lay  on  the  floor  for  dead, 
And  four  more,  wounded,  turned  and  fled ! 

Dead  they  were  not,  but  bruised  full  sore ; 
The  bride,  and  bridegroom,  bending  o'er, 
With  care  and  cordial,  life  restore. 
Others  came  too — the  wounded  raised, 
And  ISAAC'S  valor  loudly  praised. 
None  thought  him  made  of  such  true  stuff; 
But  hoped  the  rascals  had  enough. 
All  said  't  was  right — and  south  and  north, 
Abjured  BRIDE-STEALING  from  thenceforth. 

The  pedagogue  got  credit  by 
His  "  winter  apple  "  prophecy. 
And  LEE  too,  proved  a  prophet  true  ;  t 

Two  men  thereafter  BURNHAM  slew, 
In  fierce  debate  and  bloody  fray, 
In  Hav'r'ill*  jail  the  while  he  lay  ; 
For  which  his  neck  the  halter  wore, 
Sole  murderer   Berlin  ever  bore. 

His  neighbors   LEE  soon  elevate 
In  church,  in  army,  and  in  state, 
And  make  him,  spite  of  his  desire, 
Colonel,  and  Deacon,  and  Esquire.          * 
And  in  the  last,  it  well  appears, 
He  judged  New  Britain  thirty  years. 
When  wearied  out  with  public  duty,          * 
His  TABBY  still  to  him  a  beauty, 
He,  to  all  rulers  a  bright  beacon, 
Would  office  quit,  save  that  of  Deacon. 
His  townsmen  would  not  hear  his  plea, 
But  he,  perforce,  their  judge  must  be. 
LEE,  well  resolved  his  cares  to  doff, 
Straight  penned  request  to  let  him  off 
To  General  Court  at  Hartford  sitting ; 
Who  judged  it  hard  and  ill-befitting, 
To  force  a  man,  whate'er  his  skill, 
Office  to  hold  against  his  will. 

The  best  can  't  last,  for  time  keeps  going ; 
Follow  who  comes,  their  righteous  doing. 

*  In  Haverhill,  in  New  Hampshire. 


162  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

But  mind  the  right,  for  't  is  no  wonder 

If  once  at  least  each  makes  a  blunder. 

Tp  evil-doers  long  a  terror, 

In  judgment  LEE  was  once  in  error. 

Right  culprits  once  he  failed  to  hit, 

In  case  the  following,  to  wit : 

A  neighbor  made,  for  loss  and  fright, 

Complaint  of  revellers  at  night : — 

His  swine-trough  in  his  well  was  thrown ; 

His  well-sweep  o'er  his  house  had  flown ; 

His  wood-pile,  placed  against  his  door, 

At  morning  opened,  knocked  him  o'er ; 

Where  his  ox-yoke,  he  had  not  learned ; 

His  cart  was  in  the  brook,  upturned. 

And  worse, — his  tavern-sign  he  spied, 

To  his  cow's  horns  securely  tied ; 

And  she  had  run  a  weary  race, 

With  "  ENTERTAINMENT"  on  her  face  ! 

The  rogues  got  clear,  by  art  and  cunning, 
Of  these  night-rigs  they  had  been  running  : 
They  made  their  brags — but  for  their  trouble, 
The  next  time  round,  LEE  fined  them  double. 

jyid  so  his  acts  as  magistrate, 
Spread  all  through  this  part  of  the  state. 
Of  his  wise  judgments  you  might  hear, 
In^Christian-Lane  and  Fagonshire ; 
In  Woman's-Misery,  if  you  ask  it, 
Or  Sodom,  where  the  WYERS  made  basket ; 
And  not  a  man  that  you  should  meet, 
In  Cider-Brook,  or  Brandy-Street, 
Or  Pumpkin-Town,  or  Pudding-Hill, 
Or  Lovely-Town,  or  where  you  will — 
But  knew  the  fame  of  Colonel  LEE  ; 
Nay,  some  so  zealous  friends  had  he, 
Through  the  Green- Woods,  his  acts  they  ringed  'em, 
To  Pilfershire  and  Satan's-Kingdom !  * 

*  All  these  were  true  names  of  localities. 


REV.     DANIEL     HUNTINGTON.  163 


REV.  DANIEL   HUNTINGTON. 

[Born  1788.] 

THE  Rev.  DANIEL  HUNTINGTON  was  born  at  Norwich,  on  the  17th 
of  October,  1788.  His  father  was  Gen.  JEDIDIAH  HUNTINGTON,  a 
Brigadier  General  of  the  Revolutionary  army,  and  the  last  survivor 
of  that  rank,  a  man  of  the  highest  respectability  of  character,  and  of 
distinguished  piety.  His  mother  was  ELIZABETH  MOORE,  a  sister  of 
the  late  venerable  Bishop  MOORE,  of  Virginia.  While  the  subject 
of  our  sketch  was  yet  quite  young,  Gen.  HUNTINGTON  removed  to 
the  city  of  New  London,  where  he  held  for  many  years,  and  until 
his  death,  the  office  of  Collector  of  the  Port,  and  where  his  son 
passed  the  majority  of  his  boyish  days. 

Mr.  HUNTINGTON  was  fitted  for  college  at  Colchester,  under 
Preceptor  ADAMS,  subsequently  Principal  of  Philips'  Academy,  of 
Andover.  He  entered  Brown  University,  but  completed  his  course 
at  Yale  College,  where  he  was  graduated  in  1807.  Soon  afterward 
he  commenced  the  study  of  theology,  which  he  pursued  principally 
with  the  Rev.  Dr.  BENEDICT,  of  Plainfield,  and  was  for  a  short  time 
at  the  Andover  Theological  Seminary. 

In  October,  1812,  Mr.  HUNTINGTON  was  ordained  pastor  of  the 
Congregational  Church  in  North  Bridgewater,  in  Massachusetts, 
where  he  resided  for  many  years.  His  health  failing,  in  1833,  he 
resigned  his  parochial  cure,  returned  to  New  London,  and  for 
several  years  was  engaged  as  teacher  of  a  school  for  young  ladies. 
Having  regained  his  health,  he  accepted  an  invitation  to  the  charge 
of  a  portion  of  his  old  congregation  which  had  formed  itself  into  a 
distinct  society,  as  the  Second  Congregational  Church  in  North 
Bridgewater,  where  he  still  sustains  the  pastoral  office. 

In  1830,  Mr.  HUNTINGTON  published  at  Boston  a  small  volume 
containing  "  Religion,"  a  poem,  delivered  before  "  The  United  Bro 
thers' Society  "  in  Brown  University,  August  31,  1819,  and  "The 
Triumphs  of  Faith,"  a  poem,  delivered  before  "  The  Porter  Rhetorical 
Society"  in  the  Theological  Seminary  of  Andover,  September  21, 
1830.  Both  poems  are  composed  in  the  difficult  measure  of  SPENSER, 
and  we  believe  they  are  the  only  published  proofs  which  their  author 
has  given  of  his  poetical  talents.  They  are  characterized  by  great 
refinement  of  taste,  elegance  of  structure,  and  purity  of  sentiment. 


THE   THEME.* 

Not  mine  the  aim  a  vacant  mind  t'  amuse, 
And  please  the  idle  with  an  idle  lay : 
Well  might  the  wise  and  fair  a  song  refuse, 
Which  would  but  cheat  their  precious  hours  away. 
Truth  is  the  Genius,  of  our  happy  day, 
To  her  my  humble  tribute  let  me  bring, 
In  measure  that  bespeaks  her  sober  sway, 
The  while  a  weak  and  trembling  hand  I  fling 
O'er  SPENSER'S  ancient  lyre,  with  long  resounding  string. 

Yet  may  fair  Virtue's  eulogist  essay 
To  deck  a  heavenly  theme  with  earthly  flowers  ; 
Nor  does  Religion  aye  forbid  to  stray 
Through  the  soft  shade  of  Fancy's  blooming  bowers, 
Nor  scorns  the  meed  of  scientific  hours  ; 
But  guides  the  progress  of  a  studious  mind, 
Gives  to  the  noblest  use  our  noblest  powers, 
Cheers  the  rapt  soul  with  pleasures  most  refined, 
And  leaves  earth's  fading  scenes  and  tinsel  toys  behind. 

0,  I  have  loved,  in  youth's  fair  vernal  morn, 
To  spread  imagination's  wildest  wing, 
The  sober  certainties  of  life  to  scorn, 
And  seek  the  visioned  realms  that  poets  sing — 
Where  Nature  blushes  in  perennial  spring, 
Where  streams  of  earthly  joy  exhaustless  rise, 
Where  Youth  and  Beauty  tread  the  choral  ring, 
And  shout  their  raptures  to  the  cloudless  skies, 
While  every  jovial  hour  on  downy  pinion  flies. 

But  ah !  those  fairy  scenes  at  once  have  fled, 
Since  stern  Experience  waved  her  iron  wand, 
Broke  the  soft  slumbers  of  my  visioned  head, 
And  bade  me  here  of  perfect  bliss  bespond. 
And  oft  have  I  the  painful  lesson  conned, 
When  Disappointment  mocked  my  roving  heart, 
Still  of  its  own  delusions  weakly  fond, 
And  from  forbidden  pleasures  loth  to   part, 
Though  shrinking  oft  beneath  Correction's  deepest  smart. 

*  Extract  from  "  Religion,"  a  poem. 


And  is  there  nought  in  mortal  life,  I  cried, 
Can  soothe  the  sorrows  of  this  laboring  breast  ? 
No  kind  recess,  where  baffled  Hope  may  hide, 
And  weary  Nature  lull  her  woes  to  rest  ? 
Oh  grant  me,  pitying  HEAVEN,  this  last  request, — 
Since  I  must  every  loftier  wish  resign, — 
Be  my  few  days  with  peace  and  friendship  blessed ; 
Nor  will  I  at  my  humble  lot  repine, 
Though  neither  wealth,  nor  fame,  nor  luxury  be  mine. 

Oh  give  me  yet,  in  some  recluse  abode, 
Encircled  with  a  faithful  few,  to  dwell, 
Where  power  cannot  oppress,  nor  care  corrode, 
Nor  venomed  tongues  the  tale  of  slander  tell : 
Or  bear  me  to  some  solitary  cell, 
Beyond  the  reach  of  every  human  eye  ; 
And  let  me  bid  a  long,  a  last  farewell 
To  each  alluring  object  'neath  the  sky, 
And  there  in  peace  await  my  hour,  in  peace  to  die. 

"  Ah,  vain  desire  ! "  a  still  small  voice  replied  ; 
"  No  place,  no  circumstance  can  Peace  impart : 
She  scorns  the  mansion  of  unvanquished  Pride, 
Sweet  inmate  of  a  pure  and  humble  heart ; 
Take  then  thy  station — act  thy  proper  part : 
A  Saviour's  mercy  seek, — his  will  perform : 
His  Word  has  balm  for  sin's  envenomed  smart, 
His  love,  diffused,  thy  shuddering  breast  shall  warm  ; 
His  power  thy  spirit  shield  from  every  threatening  storm." 

Oh  welcome  hiding  place  !  Oh  refuge  sweet 
For  fainting  pilgrims,  on  this  desert  way ! 
Oh  kind  Conductor  of  these  wandering  feet, 
Through  snares  and  darkness,  to  the  realms  of  day ! 
Soon  did  the  Sun  of  Righteousness  display 
His  healing  beams  ;  each  gloomy  cloud  dispel : 
While  on  the  parting  mist,  in  colors  gay, 
Truth's  cheering  bow  of  precious  promise  fell, 
And  Mercy's  silver  voice  soft  whispered — "  All  is  well." 


i  166 


POETS    OF    CONNECTICUT. 


THE   TREASURE.* 

It  is  the  Gospel's  glory  that  it  suits 
The  learned  and  ignorant,  the  great  and  small : 
The  Tree  of  Life  has  rich  and  various  fruits, 
Arid  leaves  of  healing  virtue,  free  for  all ; 
And  loud  and  earnest  is  HEAVEN'S  gracious  call ; 
And  bounding  youth  and  tottering  age  may  come, 
To  catch  the  nectared  clusters  as  they  fall, 
And  taste  of  pleasures  that  survive  the  tomb, 
And  give  immortal  health,  and  never-withering  bloom. 

Would'st  thou  be  rich  ?  Delve  not  in  Mammon's  mine, 
Nor  grudge  the  golden  fetters  of  his  slave  ; 
A  generous  and  an  humble  heart  be  thine, 
And  thou  art  wealthier  than  the  ocean  wave, 
That  hides  what  thousands  died  to  gain  and  save  ; 
Yet  cold  and  cheerless  holds  the  shining  store, 
The  merchant's  spoiler,  and  the  seaman's  grave ! 
Then  be  content — no  needless  gift  implore — 
To-day's  supply  is  promised — worlds  could  yield  no  more. 

Would'st  thou  be  mighty  ?  Seek  not  in  the  field 
Of  groans  and  blood  to  triumph  o'er  the  slain  : 
The  weapons  of  a  noble  warfare  wield, 
A  more  important  victory  to  gain. 
Subdue  thy  passions — the  good  fight  maintain, 
With  each  rebellious  inmate  of  the  soul : 
Each  turbulent  and  lofty  thought  restrain — 
Preserve  thine  inward  empire  firm  and  whole, 
And  reign  in  bloodless  majesty  of  self-control. 

Would'st  thou  be  noble  ?  see  from  yonder  throne, 
Disrobed  of  royal  radiance,  descend 
The  KING  OF  KINGS — JEHOVAH'S  equal  Son, 
The  LORD  of  Angels,  and  the  sinner's  Friend  ! 
Go  learn  of  him — in  filial  meekness  bend 
Beneath  thy  heavenly  Father's  high  behest ; 
The  arms  of  boundless  charity  extend — 
Live  for  mankind,  and  be  thine  aim  confest, 
By  lowliness  to  rise — in  blessing  to  be  blest. 

*  From  the  same. 


REV.     DANIEL     HUNTINGTON.  167 

X-X_^_/-^-V^-N^-v^%_^X-'-^-%_^w/-N_^^ 

Seest  thou  yon  lonely  cottage  in  the  grove, 
With  little  garden  neatly  planned  before, 
Its  roof  deep-shaded  by  the  elms  above, 
Moss-grown  and  decked  with  velvet  verdure  o'er  ? 
Go  lift  the  willing  latch — the  scene  explore — 
Sweet  peace,  and  love,  and  joy,  thou  there  shalt  find  ; 
For  there  Religion  dwells  ;  whose  sacred  lore 
Leaves  the  proud  wisdom  of  the  world  behind, 
And  pours  a  heavenly  ray  on  every  humble  mind. 

When  the  bright  morning  gilds  the  eastern  skies, 
Up  springs  the  peasant  from  his  calm  repose  ; 
Forth  to  his  honest  toil  he  cheerful  hies, 
And  tastes  the  sweets  of  nature  as  he  goes  ; 
But  first,  of  Sharon's  fairest,  sweetest  rose, 
He  breathes  the  fragrance,  and  pours  forth  the  praise  ; 
Looks  to  the  source  whence  every  blessing  flows, 
Ponders  the  page  which  heavenly  truth  conveys, 
And  to  its  Author's  hand  commits  his  future  ways. 

Nor  yet  in  solitude  his  prayers  ascend ; 
His  faithful  partner  and  their  blooming  train, 
The  precious  Word,  with  reverent  minds,  attend, 
The  heaven-directed  path  of  life  to  gain. 
Their  voices  mingle  in  the  grateful  strain — 
The  lay  of  love  and  joy  together  sing, 
To  Him  whose  bounty  clothes  the  smiling  plain, 
Who  spreads  the  beauties  of  the  blooming  spring, 
And  tunes  the  warbling  throats  that  make  the  valleys  ring. 


INFIDELITY.* 

I  pity  those,  howe'er  profoundly  read 
In  nature's  laws,  who  nature's  GOD  disown ; 
Who  can  JEHOVAH'S  radiant  footstool  tread, 
And  lift  no  look  of  reverence  to  his  throne. 
His  various  gifts,  in  rich  profusion  strown 
Through  every  path  their  curious  minds  explore, 
Thankless  they  seize,  with  selfish  joy  alone  ; 

*  From  "  The  Triumphs  of  Faith." 


168  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Nor  yet  the 'Giver's  bounteous  hand  adore, 
With  praise  for  blessings  past,  or  humble  suit  for  more. 

Yet  such  of  their  Philosophy  can  boast, 
O'er  law  and  faith  in  majesty  sublime  ! 
Deeming  him  wisest,  who  despises  most 
The  great  and  good  of  every  age  and  clime  ; 
Calls  order  slavery — prayer  a  waste  of  time, — 
Religion,  Priestcraft, — GOD'S  own  Word,  a  lie, — 
All  chartered  claims,  the  legal  fence  of  crime, — 
And  e'en  chaste  wedlock's  consecrated  tie, 
A  breach  of  nature's  law, — a  mean  monopoly ! 

To  such  all  truth  is  fable, — but  their  own ; 
All  wisdom,  folly, — save  what  they  have  taught ; — 
The  past,  a  dream  ; — the  future  all  unknown ; 
(Since  every  change  by  eyeless  chance  is  wrought,) 
This  glorious  world  with  countless  wonders  fraught, 
A  giant  foundling,  without  name  or  sire  ; — 
The  soul,  an  empty  breath,  a  passing  thought, 
Darting  through  time,  like  meteoric  fire, 
And  soon  in  endless  night  to  darken  and  expire  ! 

And  is  this  all  Philosophy  can  show, 
To  claim  our  homage  at  her  lofty  shrine  ? 
Is  it  for  this  she  calls  us  to  forego 
The  peace,  the  hope,  the  joy  of  Faith  divine  ? 
Our  noble  birthright  shall  we  thus  resign, 
To  live  like  beasts  or  insects  of  a  day  ? 
Like  the  poor  worm  our  little  shroud  to  twine, 
Then  spread  ephemeral  wings  and  flit  away, 
To  meet  no  future  morn,  with  life-restoring  ray ! 

If  this  be  Goshen,  give  me  Egypt's  gloom ! 
I  dream  of  pleasure  : — wake  me  not  to  wo  ! 
If  I  have  nought — am  nought,  beyond  the  tomb, 
Ah,  what  avails  the  dismal  truth  to  know ! 
In  error's  vale  if  fruits  and  flowerets  grow, 
While  science'  heights  in  icy  splendor  rise — 
Still  let  me  keep  my  humble  path  below, 
And  taste  the  harmless  pleasures  that  I  prize — 
'  Where  ignorance  is  bliss,  't  is  folly  to  be  wise." 


JAMES     A.    HILL  HOUSE.  169 


JAMES   ABRAHAM   HILLHOUSE. 

[Born  1789.    Died  1841.] 

THE  ancestors  of  Mr.  HILLHOUSE  were  of  an  honorable  family  in 
the  county  of  Deny,  in  Ireland,  one  of  the  members  of  which  emi 
grated  to  America,  and  settled  in  Connecticut,  in  the  year  1720.  The 
name  has  since  been  conspicuous  in  the  history  of  the  commonwealth. 
The  Hon.  WILLIAM  HILLHOUSE  was  engaged  for  more  than  fifty 
years  in  the  public  service,  as  a  Representative,  a  member  of  the 
Council,  and  an  efficient  officer  in  other  places  of  trust  and  dignity. 
The  father  of  the  poet,  the  Hon.  JAMES  HILLHOUSE,  who  died  in 
1833,  filled  various  offices  in  his  native  state,  and  was  for  many 
years  a  leading  member  of  Congress.  His  noble  and  successful 
efforts  in  behalf  of  "  The  Connecticut  School  Fund,"  which  for  many 
years  was  subjected  to  his  management,  and  which  was  more  than 
doubled  in  value  under  his  charge,  as  also  the  legislative  aid  which, 
by  untiring  exertions,  he  was  enabled  to  procure  for  Yale  College,  of 
which  he  was  for  fifty  years  the  Treasurer,  will  cause  his  name  to 
be  long  cherished  by  the  citizens  of  Connecticut,  and  by  all  friends 
of  universal  education.  So  interesting  a  description  does  his  son 
give  of  him,  in  his  poem  of  "  Sachem's  Wood,"  the  present  name  of 
the  HILLHOUSE  residence  in  New  Haven,  that  we  cannot  refrain 
from  a  brief  extract : 

"  The  cheerful  morn,  the  short,  sweet  night, 
The  mind,  as  sunshine,  ever  bright ; 
Approving  conscience,  growing  store  ; 
(For  though  GOD  took,  he  gave  back  more ;) 
A  breast,  like  HECTOR'S,  of  such  space 
That  strength  and  sweetness  could  embrace  ; 
Power  to  endure,  and  soul  to  feel 
No  hardship  such,  for  others'  weal ; 
Ardor,  that  logic  could  not  shake  ; 
Resource,  the  nonplus  ne'er  to  take; 
A  filial  love  of  mother  earth, 
That  made  keen  labor  sweet  as  mirth  ; — 
All  brought  him  to  his  age  so  green, 
Stamped  him  so  reverend,  so  se.rene, 
A  stranger  cried,  (half  turning  round,) 
4  That  face  is  worth  a  thousand  pound  ! ' " 

The  subject  of  our  sketch  was  born  in  New  Haven,  on  the  26th  of 
September,  1789.  At  the  age  of  fifteen  he  entered  Yale  College, 
where  he  was  graduated  in  1808,  with  high  reputation  for  scholarship. 


15 


170  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Upon  taking  his  degree  of  Master  of  Arts,  three  years  afterward,  he 
delivered  an  oration  on  "  The  Education  of  a  Poet,"  which  caused 
the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society  to  invite  him  to  deliver  a  poem  before 
their  body  at  the  ensuing  anniversary.  He  accepted  the  invitation, 
and,  at  the  "Commencement"  of  1812,  pronounced  before  that 
society  a  descriptive  poem,  entitled  "  The  Judgment."  Although  not 
published  until  many  years  afterward,  this  production  gained  for  its 
author  much  reputation,  and  stamped  him  as  a  poet  of  no  ordinary 
character.  The  poem  naturally  assumes  the  form  of  a  "  vision ; "  and 
is  designed  to  represent  the  fearful  events  of  the  great  Day  of  final 
retribution.  It  is  characterized  by  grandeur  of  conception,  boldness 
of  imagery,  and  much  beauty  and  even  sublimity  of  description. 

During  the  general  prostration  of  business  which  the  last  war  with 
England  occasioned,  Mr.  HILLHOUSE  returned  from  Boston,  where 
he  had  resided  for  three  years,  preparing  to  engage  in  mercantile 
transactions,  to  his  home,  at  New  Haven,  and  devoted  a  season  of 
leisure  to  poetical  composition.  He  wrote  at  that  time  "  Demetria," 
and  "Percy's  Masque,"  though  neither  was  published  for  several 
years.  When  peace  was  again  established,  he  removed  to  New 
York,  where  he  engaged  with  much  zeal  in  commercial  pursuits. 
In  1819,  he  visited  Europe  upon  business  engagements,  and  while 
in  London  revised  and  published  "  Percy's  Masque,  u  Drama,  in 
Five  Acts,"  which  was  re-published  in  this  country  in  i820. 

"  Percy's  Masque,"  while  it  claims  an  humbler  character  than  that 
of  "The  Judgment,"  and  "  Hadad,"  for  boldness  of  conception,  and 
vigor  of  thought,  is  a  poem  of  exceeding  merit,  and,  if  we  mistake 
not,  is  the  most  beautiful  of  our  author's  productions.  It  is  founded 
upon  the  well  known  ballad  of  "  The  Hermit  of  Warkworth,"  by 
Bishop  PERCY.  The  scene  is  laid  in  England,  in  the  time  of  HENRY 
the  Fourth.  HENRY  PERCY,  the  son  of  HOTSPUR,  is  an  exile  at  the 
court  of  Scotland,  his  family  estates  in  Northumberland  having  been 
confiscated  through  the  rebellion  of  his  sires,  and  bestowed  upon 
NEVILLE,  Earl  of  Westmoreland.  Bearing  his  exile  like  a  son  of 
HOTSPUR,  he  resolves  to  possess  himself  of  his  paternal  inheritance. 
He  proceeds  in  disguise  to  the  towers  of  Warkworth,  and,  by  a  well 
feigned  tale,  obtains  a  place  as  leader  of  NEVILLE'S  huntsmen,  where 
he  is  known  by  the  name  of  ARTHUR.  He  becomes  enamored  of 
ELINOR,  the  beautiful  daughter  of  NEVILLE,  and,  by  one  of  those 
occurrences  so  common  in  romance,  she  is  indebted  to  him  for  the 
preservation  both  of  life  and  honor.  In  his  situation  as  huntsman, 
ARTHUR  is  enabled  to  mingle  with  the  peasantry  of  the  estate,  who 
cherish  the  liveliest  recollection  of  the  PERCIES  ;  and  kindles  their 
zeal  for  the  restoration  of  their  proscribed  lord.  Many  of  the  gentle 
men  of  Northumberland  also  espouse  his  cause.  He  is  joined  by  his 
.early  friend,  young  DOUGLASS,  who  follows  him  in  disguise,  and 


JAMES     A.     HILLHOUSE.  171 

resolves  to  share  his  fortunes  at  all  hazards.  PERCY  obtains  for  him 
a  place  in  NEVILLE'S  train,  under  the  name  of  DONALD,  and  the  two 
mature  their  plans  in  safety.  BERTRAM,  the  hermit  of  Warkworth, 
an  old  friend  of  the  PERCIES,  becomes  enlisted  in  ARTHUR'S  favor, 
and  the  Hermitage  is  made  the  trysting-place  of  the  conspirators. 
Being  compelled  to  abandon  their  long  cherished  design  of  involving 
the  north  in  war  to  restore  the  crown  to  MORTIMER,  whose  claim  was 
more  just  than  that  of  HENRY,  Fortune  at  length  seemed  to  favor  their 
design.  The  King,  attended  by  a  small  train,  came  to  Warkworth 
Castle,  and  PERCY  obtained  permission  to  entertain  his  Majesty  by 
an  evening  "  masquerade."  Upon  this  hinge  the  whole  plot  turns. 
PERCY  obtained  the  keys  of  the  armory,  and,  under  cover  of  the 
evening's  entertainment,  fills  the  castle  with  parties  of  armed  follow 
ers,  each  under  a  powerful  leader.  He  then  proceeds  into  the  royal 
presence,  accompanied  by  DOUGLASS,  where,  after  having  given 
demonstration  of  the  nearness  and  strength  of  his  followers,  he 
kneels  before  the  king,  offers  his  sword,  and  asks  his  inheritance  or 
death,  swearing  that  not  a  hair  of  the  royal  head  shall  fall  by  his 
hand.  The  king  is  moved,  bestows  on  him  his  inheritance,  and 
promises  also  his  royal  aid  to  obtain  for  him  the  hand  of  ELINOR, 
and  the  piece  closes.  Such  is  the  story  of  this  exquisite  drama. 

In  1822,  Mr.  HILLHOUSE  was  married  to  CORNELIA  LAWRENCE, 
daughter  of  ISAAC  LAWRENCE,  Esq.,  of  New  York.  Soon  afterward 
he  returned  to  New  Haven,  where  he  resided  at  "  Sachem's  Wood," 
his  beautiful  seat,  occupied  with  the  elegant  pursuits  of  a  man  of  taste 
and  fortune.  During  the  year  1824,  "  Hadad,  a  Dramatic  Poem," 
was  written — and  committed  to  the  press  in  New  York,  in  1825. 

"  Hadad "  is  generally  considered  the  most  meritorious  of  our 
author's  productions.  It  is  based  upon  the  belief  in  a  former  inter 
course  between  mankind  and  the  good  and  evil  beings  of  the  spiritual 
world.  The  scene  is  laid  in  Judea,  in  the  days  of  King  DAVID. 
HADAD,  a  Syrian  Prince,  and  heir  to  the  crown  of  Damascus,  is 
retained  as  a  hostage  in  Jerusalem,  on  account  of  the  broken  faith 
of  his  kingdom,  and  resides  as  a  guest  in  the  house  of  ABSALOM. 
Here  his  heart  is  won  by  the  beauty  of  the  lovely  TAMAR,  the  daugh 
ter  of  ABSALOM.  She  is  ensnared  by  his  manly  grace  and  bewitching 
eloquence,  but  is  restrained  by  an  instinctive  fear,  and  refuses  to 
grant  his  request  until  he  shall  renounce  his  heathenism,  and  conform 
to  the  Jewish  worship.  His  suit  is  encouraged  by  ABSALOM,  but 
viewed  with  coldness  by  DAVID,  who  is  warned  by  the  Prophet 
NATHAN  to  beware  the  Syrian.  NATHAN  also  endeavors  to  free  the 
gentle  TAMAR  from  his  wiles.  Meanwhile  King  DAVID  is  suspected 
of  a  purpose  to  make  the  young  SOLOMON  his  heir,  and  HADAD 
breathes  words  of  rebellion  into  the  willing  ears  of  ABSALOM.  He 
plots  to  pluck  the  diadem  from  the  brows  of  DAVID,  and  draws  away 
a  large  portion  of  Israel  in  revolt.  The  issue  is  decided  by  the  battle 


172  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

near  the  forest  of  Ephraim,  in  which  ABSALOM  is  slain,  and  his  army 
<  defeated.  At  news  of  the  death  of  ABSALOM,  HADAD,  to  whose 
(  charge  TAMAR  has  been  entrusted,  and  who  is  lingering  near  in  the 

forest,  endeavors  to  induce  her  to  flee  with  him  from  Judea  to  realms 

remote,  and  promises  her  treasures  greater  than  Earth  can  yield. 

At  length,  failing  in  every  effort,  he-  throws  off  disguise,  and  reveals 

his  true  character : 

"  What  them  so  dotest  on — this  form — was  HADAD'S — 

But  I — the  Spirit — I,  who  speak  through  these 

Clay  lips,  and  glimmer  through  these  eyes, — 

Have  challenged  fellowship,  equality, 

With  Deathless  Ones, — prescient  Intelligences, — 

Who  scorn  man  and  his  molehill,  and  esteem 

The  outgoing  of  the  morning,  yesterday  ! 

********** 

First,  in  the  city's  crowded  gate  I  saw  thee, 

The  memorable  day  thou  earnest  from  Geshur, 

A  vermil  blossom  by  thy  father's  side, 

Hailing  Jerusalem  with  smiles  and  tears. 

Then,  then  I  loved  thee, — tender  as  thou  wert ; — 

I  hung  invisibly  about  thy  steps — 

About  thy  bed, — I  glided  in  thy  dreams, — 

Filled  them  with  sweet,  voluptuous  forms  and  phantoms, 

And  watched  thy  glowing  cheek  and  heaving  bosom, 

While  my  bright  visions  stirred  thy  fancy happy 

Till  that  cursed  Syrian,  fresher  than  ADONIS, 
Became  thy  inmate.     No  seducing  dream, 
Illusion,  art  of  mine,  could  reach  thee  more. 
Then,  first,  I  knew  agonies,  scorpions,  fire ! 
But  mark, — I  harmed  him  not, — ensnared  him  not, — 
Unlocked  life's  secret  by  no  subtle  spell. 
But  mourning  in  a  mountain  solitude, 
Neighboring  Jerusalem,  my  luckless  love 
And  lowering  destiny,  your  father's  train 
Came  forth  to  hunt.     The  Syrian  from  the  rest 
Severing  in  keen  pursuit,  fell  in  with  outlaws 
Who  followed,  and  with  bloody  daggers  slew  him, 
Even  by  the  fountain  where  I  mused  unseen. 
********** 

While  his  quivering  limbs 

Pressed  the  green  sod,  while  pitying  I  surveyed 
His  matchless  beauty,  nobly  stern  in  death, 
And  thought  how  dear  those  features  were  to  thee, 
I  dared  the  penalty  ; — for  thy  sake  dared 
Death,  prison-house,  and  penal  consequence. 
Denounced  on  the  offence  : — I  linked  myself 
To  HADAD'S  form,  and  life's  infirmities, 
My  recompense,  my  only  recompense, 
Thy  love." 


Seizing  at  length  the  resisting  victim  of  his  stratagem,  who  trusted 
confidingly  in  GOD'S  protection,  with  demoniac  fury  he  drags  her 
shrieking  into  a  neighboring  cavern.  Friends  of  the  lost  princess 
soon  arrive  in  search  of  her,  but  are  deterred  from  entering  the  cave, 
whence  yells  of  rage  and  blasphemous  curses  are  heard,  as  of  some 
demon  in  mortal  agony.  Suddenly  they  cease — a  rush,  as  of  blessed 
wings,  is  heard,  passing  from  the  cave — ambrosial  odors  fill  the  air — 
and  the  friends  venture  within  the  entrance.  The  princess  lies 
fainting,  but  unharmed  ;  while  near  her  is  extended  a  hideous  form, 
blasted  in  death,  with  "  a  hellish  glare  glazed  on  its  starting  eyeballs !" 
The  cause  of  all  this  evil,  whose  power  was  now  struck  down  by  a 
mightier  hand,  was  the  fell  Demon,  ASMODAI. 

In  1840,  Mr.  HILLHOUSE  published  at  Boston,  in  two  volumes,  all 
of  the  above-mentioned  poems,  with  "  Demetria,  a  Tragedy,  in  Five 
Acts,"  founded  on  an  Italian  tale  of  love,  jealousy  and  revenge,  and 
"  Sachem's  Wood,"  together  with  several  orations,  which  had  been 
publicly  delivered.  For  some  time  previous  to  this  his  health  had 
j>  been  failing,  and,  in  the  autumn  of  1840,  he  left  home  for  the  last 
time,  to  visit  his  friends  in  Boston.  He  returned,  apparently  bene- 
fitted  by  the  journey,  and  for  some  time  no  immediate  danger  was 
apprehended.  But,  on  the  second  day  of  the  following  January,  his 
disorder  assumed  an  alarming  form,  which  terminated  fatally  upon 
the  evening  of  the  following  Monday,  the  4th  day  of  January,  1841. 
His  funeral  obsequies  were  performed  by  his  friend,  the  Rev.  JOSEPH 
H.  NICHOLS,  who  has  feelingly  described  the  mournful  scene  : 

"  One  friend  I  knew  ! — it  seems  but  yesterday, 
In  the  cold  earth  I  laid  his  colder  clay. 
The  angel  Muses  on  his  cradle  smiled, 
And  Poesy  acknowledged  him  her  child ; 
Gentle  as  woman's  was  his  soul,  yet  bold 
As  some  old  master's  verse,  his  numbers  rolled. 
But,  ah,  he  died.     Snatched,  snatched  away  too  soon, 
His  sun  went  down  at  manhood's  golden  noon. 
Last  of  his  name,  he  fell  as  falls  the  oak, 
Last  of  the  forest,  by  the  tempest's  stroke. 
No  time  can  from  my  mind  that  scene  efface, 
When  sad  we  bore  him  to  his  resting  place  ; 
T  was  winter  wild,  and  leafless  were  the  trees, 
The  tolling  bell  came  moaning  on  the  breeze  ; 
On  the  sere  earth  the  light  snow  scattered  lay, 
As  still  and  slow,  in  funeral  array, 
Down  through  the  woods  the  long  procession  wound, 
To  place  the  poet's  form  in  hallowed  ground. 
'T  was  there  my  mournful  privilege  to  read, 
While  round  me  many  a  broken  heart  did  bleed, 
The  soothing,  solemn  service  of  the  dead, 
Ere  closed  the  earth  above  the  minstrel's  head. 


174  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT 

Sweet  bard !  bright  scholar !  gentle  be  thy  rest, 
Till  thou  resume  thy  lyre  among  the  blest. 
Accept  these  flowers  of  song  from  one  who,  late, 
HILLHOUSE  !  thy  tomb  comes  now  to  decorate." 


CLOSE   OF  THE   VISION.* 

Down  from  the  lessening  multitude  came  faint 
And  fainter  still  the  trumpet's  dying  peal, 
All  else  in  distance  lost,  when,  to  receive 
Their  new  inhabitants,  the  heavens  unfolded. 
Up  gazing,  then,  with  streaming  eyes,  a  glimpse 
The  wicked  caught  of  Paradise,  whence  streaks 
Of  splendor,  golden  quivering  radiance  shone, 
Like  the  deep  glories  of  declining  day, 
When,  washed  by  evening  showers,  the  huge-orbed  sun 
Breaks  instantaneous  o'er  the  illumined  world. 
Seen  far  within,  fair  forms  moved  graceful  by, 
Slow  turning  to  the  light  their  snowy  wings. 
A  deep-drawn  agonizing  groan  escaped 
The  hapless  outcasts,  when,  upon  the  LORD, 
The  glowing  portals  closed.     Undone,  they  stood 
Wistfully  gazing  on  the  cold  gray  heaven, 
As  if  to  catch,  alas  !  a  hope  not  there. 
But  shades  began  to  gather,  night  approached, 
Murky  and  lowering ;  round  with  horror  rolled 
On  one  another  their  despairing  eyes, 
That  glared  with  anguish ;  starless,  hopeless  gloom 
Fell  on  their  souls,  never  to  know  an  end. 
Though  in  the  far  horizon  lingered  yet 
A  lurid  gleam,  black  clouds  were  mustering  there ; 
Red  flashes,  followed  by  low,  muttering  sounds, 
Announced  the  fiery  tempest,  doomed  to  hurl 
The  fragments  of  the  earth  again  to  chaos. 
Wild  gusts  swept  by,  upon  whose  hollow  wing 
Unearthly  voices,  yells,  and  ghastly  peals 
Of  demon  laughter  came.     Infernal  shapes 
Flitted  along  the  sulphurous  wreaths,  or  plunged 

*  From  the  conclusion  of  "  The  Judgment." 


JAMES     A.     HILLHOUSE.  175 

^_S-^^^^Jr^^^S-^r^/r^_f-^1r^-^-^~^^ 

Their  dark,  impure  abyss,  as  sea-fowl  dive 
Their  watery  element.     O'erwhelmed  with  sights 
And  sounds  of  horror,  I  awoke  ;  and  found 
For  gathering  storms,  and  signs  of  coming  wo, 
The  midnight  moon  gleaming  upon  my  bed 
Serene  and  peaceful.     Gladly  I  surveyed  her 
Walking  in  brightness  through  the  stars  of  heaven, 
And  blessed  the  respite  ere  the  day  of  doom. 


HADAD.— A  DRAMATIC  POEM. 


ACT  I .   SCENE  -III. 

The  garden  of  ABSALOM'S  house  on  Mount  Zion,  near  the  palace,  overlooking 
the  city.     TAMAR  sitting  by  a  fountain. 

Tarn.     How  aromatic  evening  grows  !     The  flowers 
And  spicy  shrubs  exhale  like  onycha ; 
Spikenard  and  henna  emulate  in  sweets. 
Blest  hour !  which  HE,  who  fashioned  it  so  fair, 
So  softly  glowing,  so  contemplative, 
Hath  set,  and  sanctified  to  look  on  man. 
And  lo  !  the  smoke  of  evening  sacrifice 
Ascends  from  out  the  tabernacle.     HEAVEN, 
Accept  the  expiation,  and  forgive 
This  day's  offences  !     Ha !    the  wonted  strain, 
Precursor  of  his  coming !     Whence  can  this — 
It  seems  to  flow  from  some  unearthly  hand — 
[Enter  HADAD.] 

Had.     Does  beauteous  TAMAR  view,  in  this  clear  fount, 
Herself,  or  heaven  ? 

Tarn.     Nay,  HADAD,  tell  me  whence 
Those  sad,  mysterious  sounds. 

Had.     What  sounds,  dear  Princess  ? 

Tarn.     Surely,  thou  know'st ;  and  now  I  almost  think 
Some  spiritual  creature  waits  on  thee. 

Had.     I  heard  no  sounds,  but  such  as  evening  sends 
Up  from  the  city  to  these  quiet  shades  ; 
A  blended  murmur  sweetly  harmonizing 


176  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

With  flowing  fountains,  feathered  minstrelsy, 
And  voices  from  the  hills. 

Tarn.     The  sounds  I  mean, 
Floated  like  mournful  music  round  my  head, 
From  unseen  fingers. 

Had.     When  ? 

Tarn.     Now,  as  thou  earnest. 

Had.     'T  is  but  thy  fancy,  wrought 
To  ecstacy ;  or  else  thy  grandsire's  harp 
Resounding  from  his  tower  at  eventide. 
I  've  lingered  to  enjoy  its  solemn  tones, 
Till  the  broad  moon,  that  rose  o'er  Olivet, 
Stood  listening  in  the  zenith  ;  yea,  have  deemed 
Viols  and  heavenly  voices  answered  him. 

Tarn.     But  these — 

Had.     Were  we  in  Syria,  I  might  say 
The  Naiad  of  the  fount,  or  some  sweet  Nymph, 
The  goddess  of  these  shades,  rejoiced  in  thee, 
x\nd  gave  thee  salutations  ;  but  I  fear 
Judah  would  call  me  infidel  to  MOSES. 

Tarn.     How  like  my  fancy !    When  these  strains  precede 
Thy  steps,  as  oft  they  do,  I  love  to  think 
Some  gentle  being  who  delights  in  us 
Is  hovering,  near,  and  warns  me  of  thy  coming; 
But  they  are  dirge-like. 

Had.     Youthful  fantasy, 

Attuned  to  sadness,  makes  them  seem  so,  lady. 
So  evening's  charming  voices,  welcomed  ever, 
As  signs  of  rest  and  peace  ; — the  watchman's  call, 
The  closing  gates,  the  Levite's  mellow  trump, 
Announcing  the  returning  moon,  the  pipe 
Of  swains,  the  bleat,  the  bark,  the  housing-bell, 
Send  melancholy  to  a  drooping  soul. 

Tarn.     But  how  delicious  are  the  pensive  dreams 
That  steal  upon  the  fancy  at  their  call ! 

Had.     Delicious  to  behold  the  world  at  rest. 
Meek  labor  wipes  his  brow,  and  intermits 
The  curse,  to  clasp  the  younglings  of  his  cot ; 
Herdsmen  and  shepherds  fold  their  flocks, — and  hark ! 


What  merry  strains  they  send  from  Olivet ! 
The  jar  of  life  is  still ;  the  city  speaks 
In  gentle  murmurs  ;  voices  chime  with  lutes 
Waked  in  the  streets  and  gardens  ;  loving  pairs 
Eye  the  red  west  in  one  another's  arms ; 
And  nature,  breathing  dew  and  fragrance,  yields 
A  glimpse  of  happiness,  which  He,  who  formed 
Earth  and  the  stars,  had  power  to  make  eternal. 

Tarn.    Ah !  HA  DAD,  meanest  thou  to  reproach  the  Friend 
Who  gave  so  much,  because  he  gave  not  all  ? 

Had.     Perfect  benevolence,  methinks,  had  willed 
Unceasing  happiness,  and  peace,  and  joy  ; 
Filled  the  whole  universe  of  human  hearts 
With  pleasure,  like  a  flowing  spring  of  life. 

Tarn.     Our  prophet  teaches  so,  till  man's  rebellion. 

Had.     Rebellion  ! — Had  he  leaguered   heaven  itself 
With  beings  powerful,  numberless,  and  dreadful — 
Mixed  onset  midst  the  lacerating  hail, 
And  snake-tongued  thunderbolts,  that  hissed  and  stung 
Worse  than  eruptive  mountains, — this  had  fallen 
Within  the  category.     But  what  did  man  1 
Tasted  an  apple !  and  the  fragile  scene, 
Eden,  and  innocence,  and  human  bliss, 
The  nectar-flowing  streams,  life-giving  fruits, 
Celestial  shades,  and  amaranthine  flowers, 
Vanish ;  and  sorrow,  toil,  and  pain,  and  death, 
Cleave  to  him  by  an  everlasting  curse. 

Tarn.     Ah !  talk  not  thus. 

Had.     Is  this  benevolence  1 

Nay,  loveliest,  these  things  sometimes  trouble  me ; 
For  I  was  tutored  in  a  brighter  faith. 
Our  Syrians  deem  each  lucid  fount  and  stream, 
Forest  and  mountain,  glade  and  bosky  dell, 
Peopled  with  kind  divinities,  the  friends 
Of  man,  a  spiritual  race  allied 
To  him  by  many  sympathies,  who  seek 
His  happiness,  inspire  him  with  gay  thoughts  ; 
Cool  with  their  waves,  and  fan  him  with  their  airs. 
O'er  them,  the  Spirit  of  the  Universe, 


178  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Or  Soul  of  Nature,  circumfuses  all 

With  mild,  benevolent,  and  sun-like  radiance ; 

Pervading,  warming,  vivifying  earth, 

As  spirit  does  the  body,  till  green  herbs, 

And  beauteous  flowers,  and  branchy  cedars,  rise ; 

And  shooting  stellar  influence  through  her  caves, 

Whence  minerals  and  gems  imbibe  their  lustre. 

Tarn.     Dreams  !  HADAD  !  empty  dreams  ! 

Had.     These  Deities 
They  invocate  with  cheerful,  gentle  rites, 
Hang  garlands  on  their  altars,  heap  their  shrines 
With  Nature's  bounties,  fruits,  and  fragrant  flowers. 
Not  like  yon  gory  mount  that  ever  reeks — 

Tarn.     Cast  not  reproach  upon  the  holy  altar. 

Had.     Nay,  sweet. — Having  enjoyed  all  pleasures  here 
That  Nature  prompts,  but  chiefly  blissful  love, 
At  death  the  happy  Syrian  maiden  deems 
Her  immaterial  flies  into  the  fields, 
Or  circumambient  clouds,  or  crystal  brooks, 
And  dwells,  a  Deity,  with  those  she  worshipped ; 
Till  time,  or  fate,  return  her  in  its  course 
To  quaff,  once  more,  the  cup  of  human  joy. 

Tarn.     But  thou  believ'st  not  this. 

Had.     I  almost  wish 

Thou  didst ;  for  I  have  feared,  my  gentle  TAMAR, 
Thy  spirit  is  too  tender  for  a  Law 
Announced  in  terrors,  coupled  with  the  threats 
Of  an  inflexible  and  dreadful  Being, 
Whose  word  annihilates, — who  could  arrest 
The  sun  in  heaven,  or,  if  he  pleased,  abolish 
Light  from  creation,  and  leave  wretched  man 
To  darkness, — as  he  did  to  worse,  when  all 
His  firmamental  cataracts  came  down ! — 
All  perished, — yet  his  purpose  faltered  not ! — 
His  anger  never  dies,  never  remits, 
But  unextinguished  burns  to  deepest  hell. 
Jealous,  implacable — 

Tarn.     Peace  !  impious  !  peace  ! 


JAMES     A.     HILLHOUSE. 


179 


Had.     Ha!  says  not  MOSES  so? 
The  LORD  is  jealous. 

Tarn.     Jealous  of  our  faith, 
Our  love,  our  true  obedience,  justly  his  ; 
And  a  poor  recompense  for  all  his  favors. 
Implacable  he  is  not ;  contrite  man 
Ne'er  found  him  so. 

Had.     But  others  have, 
If  oracles  be  true. 

Tarn.    Little  we  know 
Of  them  ;  and  nothing  of  their  dire  offence. 

Had.     I  meant  not  to  displease,  love ;  but  my  soul 
Revolts,  because  I  think  thy  gentle  nature 
Shudders  at  Him  and  yonder  bloody  rites. 
How  dreadful !  when  the  world  awakes  to  light, 
And  life,  and  gladness,  and  the  jocund  tide 
Bounds  in  the  veins  of  every  happy  creature, 
Morning  is  ushered  by  a  murdered  victim, 
Whose  wasting  members  reek  upon  the  air, 
Polluting  the  pure  firmament ;  the  shades 
Of  evening  scent  of  death  ;  almost,  the  shrine 
Itself,  o'ershadowed  by  the  Cherubim  ; 
And  where  the  clotted  current  from  the  altar 
Mixes  with  Kedron,  all  its  waves  are  gore. 
Nay,  nay,  I  grieve  thee  ; — 't  is  not  for  myself, 
But  that  I  fear  these  gloomy  things  oppress 
Thy  soul,  and  cloud  its  native  sunshine. 

Tam.       (in  tears,  clasping  her  hands.) 

Witness,  ye  Heavens  !   Eternal  Father,  witness  ! 
Blest  GOD  of  Jacob  !  Maker !  Friend  !  Preserver  ! 
That  with  my  heart,  my  undivided  soul, 
I  love,  adore,  and  praise  thy  glorious  name, 
Confess  thee  LORD  of  all,  believe  thy  Laws 
Wise,  just,  and  merciful,  as  they  are  true. 
Oh,  HADAD,  HADAD  !  you  misconstrue  much 
The  sadness  that  usurps  me  ;  't  is  for  thee 
I  grieve, — for  hopes  that  fade, — for  your  lost  soul, 
And  my  lost  happiness. 

Had.     Oh,  say  not  so. 
Beloved  Princess.     Why  distrust  my  faith  ? 


180  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Tarn.     Thou  know'st,  alas,  my  weakness ;  but  remember, 
I  never,  never  will  be  thine,  although 
The  feast,  the  blessing,  and  the  song  were  past, 
Though  ABSALOM  and  DAVID  called  me  bride, 
Till  sure  thou  own'st,  with  truth,  and  love  sincere, 
The  LORD  JEHOVAH. 

Had.     Leave  me  not — Hear,  hear — 
I  do  believe — I  know  that  Being  lives 
Whom  you  adore.     Ah!  stay — by  proofs  I  know 
Which  MOSES  had  not. 

Tarn.     Prince,  unclasp  my  hand. 

[Exit. 

Had.     Untwine  thy  fetters,  if  thou  canst.     How  sweet 
To  watch  the  struggling  softness  !     It  allays 
The  beating  tempest  of  my  thoughts,  and  flows 
Like  the  nepenthe  of  Elysium  through  me. 
How  exquisite  !     Like  subtlest  essences, 
She  fills  the  spirit !     How  the  girdle  clips 
Her  taper  waist  with  its  resplendent  clasp ! 
Her  bosom's  silvery-swelling  network  yields 
Ravishing  glimpses,  like  sweet  shade  and  moonshine 
Checkering  ASTARTE'S  statue — 

[Enter  a  Slave.'] 

Slave.     One  in  haste 
Inquires  for  you,  my  lord. 
Had.     I  come. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT     II.        SCENE     II. 

The  King's    Palace,    without  the  walls.     HADAD  pacing  up  and  down  one 
of  the  walks.     He  stops  as  he  fronts  the  city. 

'T  is  so  ; — the  hoary  harper  sings  aright ; 
How  beautiful  is  Zion !     Like  a  queen, 
Armed  with  a  helm,  in  virgin  loveliness, 
Her  heaving  bosom  in  a  bossy  cuirass, 
She  sits  aloft,  begirt  with  battlements 
And  bulwarks  swelling  from  the  rock,  to  guard 
The  sacred  courts,  pavilions,  palaces, 
Soft  gleaming  through  the  umbrage  of  the  woods, 
That  tuft  her  summit,  and,  like  raven  tresses, 


JAMES     A.     HILLHOUSE. 


181 


Wave  their  dark  beauty  round  the  tower  of  DAVID. 

Resplendent  with  a  thousand  golden  bucklers, 

The  embrasures  of  alabaster  shine  ; 

Hailed  by  the  pilgrims  of  the  desert,  bound 

To  Judah's  mart  with  orient  merchandise. 

But  not,  for  thou  art  fair  and  turret-crowned, 

Wet  with  the  choicest  dew  of  heaven,  and  blessed 

With  golden  fruits,  and  gales  of  frankincense, 

Dwell  I  beneath  thine  ample  curtains.     Here, 

Where  Saints  and  Seers  denounce,  where  the  stern  Law 

Still  speaks  in  thunder,  where  chief  Angels  watch, 

And  where  the  Glory  hovers,  here  I  war ! 


ACT     V.       SCENE     III. 

The  forest  of  Ephraim :  the  tents  of  a  company  of  Ishmaelites :  women  seen 
under  the  trees :  ADAH  singing  by  a  tent  door. 

Ad.     Greenly  flourish,  fragrant  Mountain ! 

ISHMAEL'S  free-born  offspring  know 
Every  shade  and  gushing  fountain, 
Where  thy  precious  spices  grow. 

Laden  with  the  odorous  tribute, 

When  the  gums  have  ceased  to  fall, 

Perfumes  for  the  priestly  censer, 
Sweets  for  Memphis'  regal  hall — 

First  we  greet,  on  Zion's  summit, 

Haughty  Judah's  lion  King  ; 
Then  to  Nile's  expecting  borders 

Gilead's  rifled  treasures  bring. 

What,  though  whirlwinds  sweep  our  deserts, 
Sands  and  death-clouds  stalk  the  air  ? 

Bloody  treason  never  frights  us — 
Royal  mandates  slay  not  there  ! 

We  no  King,  no  Master  worship ; 

HAGAR'S  GOD  alone  on  high : 
He  the  tameless  spirit  gave  us — 

Spread  the  desert,  hung  the  sky ! 


182  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

DEMETRIA.— A   TRAGEDY. 

ACT     I.       SCENE     II. 

OLIVIA'S  bed-chamber,  in  a  wing  of  the  villa  overlooking  the  garden.     OLIVIA 
and  JACQUELINA. 

********* 
Jacq.     And  shall  the  lover's  meed,  so  coveted, 
That,  oft,  the  lack  frenzies  and  drives  men  mad, 
Be  plucked  with  less  smart  than  a  gooseberry  ? 
What !  for  the  tinkle  of  an  idle  tongue 
Forego  the  object  of  sighs  infinite, 
Salt  tears  to  drown  ye,  which  has  kept  your  eyes 
Unvisited  of  rest,  poisoned  your  heart 
With  jealous  rancors,  mildewed  all  life's  sweetness, 
Made  youth  itself  one  canker, — saint-like  sit, 
And  see  't  inveigled  from  you  ! — Virgin  martyrs  ! 
In  Venice  you  'd  be  sung  in  hymns  ;  held  up 
In  holy  pulpits  as  the  child  of  JOB  ; 
Invoked,  as  one  by  patience  sanctified ! — 

0  yes — I  've  lived  there  : — did  I  ever  tell  thee — 

1  mean  a  story — rife  when  I  was  there — 
How  a  Venetian  served  her  rival  ? 

Oliv.     Never. 

Jacq.     A  noble  lady,  called  FLORENTIA,  loved 
The  counterpart  of  this  same  COSMO.     She, 
)       Like  you,  had  been  his  playmate,  and  imbibed 
\       Passionate  thoughts,  early  and  unawares, 

<  Till  all  her  being  centered  in  one  hope. 

<  It  chanced,  once,  that  with  her  lover  and  her  father 

<  She  visited  their  old  ancestral  castle, 

<  Built  in  the  mountains,  built  for  war  and  strength, 
;       A  huge  grey  mass  of  towers  and  battlements, 

Lonely  and  frowning  midst  its  solemn  woods. 
Here  they  amused  some  sultry  summer  days 
With  roaming  through  the  strange,  gigantic  pile ; 
Reminded  by  its  massiveness  of  times 
When  the  fierce  Condottieri  made  the  hills 
Flash  with  their  arms,  and  echo  with  their  music. 
A  few  sweet  days  flew  o'er  their  solitude, 
When,  (as  to  mar  their  Paradise,)  her  sister, — 
Adopted  by  some  kinswoman,  some  countess, 


JAMES    A.     HILLHOUSE.  183 

/-N^-^^-V^-\^~_/->^-^-N^->^^-/-N^^^ 

And  reared  by  her  from  early  youth, — this  sister — 
I  say  her  younger  sister — followed  her. 

Oliv.     What,  to  the  castle  1 

Jacq.     Ay,  as  if  resolved 
Maliciously  to  rob  her  of  her  birthright. 
FLORENTIA  welcomed  her  as  might  beseem 
Her  father's  child.     But,  soon,  this  young  one, — mark, — 
This  cunning  piece  of  fascination  threw 
Her  witch-nets  round  her  sister's  plighted  lover ; 
She  stole  his  heart, — most  treacherously  robbed 
Her  elder  sister, — triumphed  in  the  deed. 
When  proud  FLORENTIA  saw  the  truth,  a  pang 
Convulsed  her  like  an  epilepsy ;  her  eye 
Shot  one  Vesuvian  glare, — and  all  was  calm, 
Or  seemed  so.     Thereupon,  one  listless  day. 
When  both  the  cavaliers  were  down  the  mountains 
Riding  or  hunting,  she  began  to  speak 
Of  sundry  strange  and  secret  passages, 
And  labyrinths  of  cells,  like  catacombs, 
Cut  in  the  living  rock  beneath  the  castle, 
For  safety  or  concealment ;  vaults,  and  crypts, 
Receptacles  of  treasure  or  of  groans. 
In  one,  she  said,  some  hundred  fathom  down, 
The  bandit  LEO  GALFRI  breathed  his  last, 
Chained  to  a  ring  still  there.     And  in  another 
Three  chests,  with  mighty  clasps  of  iron,  stood, 
That  looked  like  treasure  chests,  but  which  her  father 
Refused  to  open.     Piquing  thus,  awhile, 
Her  curiosity,  she  cried,  at  last, 
"  LAURETTA,  come,  I  long  to  know  their  contents  ; 
Let 's  go  and  privately  examine  them." 
Purloining  keys  and  lights,  they  went  together, 
Down,  down,  long  winding  damp  stone  stairs, — through  this 
And  that  dark  vault,  low  passage,  massive  door, 
Such  as  we  hear  of, — till  they  came  indeed, 
Far  down,  into  an  arched  room,  prison-like, 
Ribbed  with  such  monstrous  stones  as  might  have  borne 
The  whole  incumbent  pile.     There  stood  the  chests. 

Oliv.     Three,  saidst  thou  ? 

Jacq.     Three  prodigious  chests. 


POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 


|       Pausing  to  gather  nerve  and  breath,  they  strove 
|       To  open  one  ;  but  could  not,  for  a  spring. 

This  mastered,  their  united  strength  heaved  up 
The  bossy,  clasped,  and  antique  lid. 

Oliv.     What  saw  they  ? 

Jacq.     Parchment  rolls,  with  papal  seals, 
And  piles  of  old  discolored  writings. 

Oliv.     Nought  else  1 

Jacq.     Oh,  yes  ;  among  the  papers  lay  a  casket, 
Inlaid  with  brass  or  gold,  or  some  bright  substance. 
In  haste  to  seize  it,  (for  the  chest  was  deep,) 
LAURETTA  climbed,  and,  reaching,  lost  her  balance.     t  *  . 
And  fell  sheer  in. — Down  comes  the  heavy  lid ; 
The  steel  spring  snaps  ;  the  rusty  dungeon  key 
Does  its  last  office  ;  brave  FLORENTIA  lies 
Slumbering  upon  her  bed,  and  waking,  asks 
Whether  LAURETTA  is  returned  from  rambling. 

Oliv.     Oh,  heavens  and  earth !  she  did  not  perish  there  ! 

Jacq.     Her  father,  sister,  all  the  house  wore  black, 
Whether  she  did  or  no  ; — and  every  hold 
And  fastness  of  the  mountains  was  smoked,  out, 
And  nineteen  brigands  and  their  leader  suffered. 
I  cannot  say  she  perished  there,  when  those 
Same  rogues  strangled  her,  as  was  proved,  and  swung 
To  expiate  their  crime. 


PERCY'S   MASQUE.— A   DRAMA. 

ACT     I.       SCENE     II. 

A  court  of  the  Castle.     Enter  WESTMORELAND,  meeting  ARTHUR,  with  a 
falcon. 

West.     How  flies  she,  ARTHUR  ? 

Ar.     Faithful  to  the  lure, 
My  lord,  and  bold  upon  the  wing  as  eagles. 

West.     Thank  my  Lord  Marshal  with  the  Tangier  barb. 
See  him  caparisoned,  and  led  by  HUBERT. 
What  tidings  from  the  North  ? 

Ar.     Berwick  is  free. 
The  Borderers  stole  away  on  MICHAEL'S  eve. 


JAMES    A.     HILLHOUSE. 


West.     A  raid  of  MURRAY'S  ;  so  I  wrote  the  King. 
Who  brought  the  news  ? 

Ar.     The  Regent's  courier  passed,  at  dawn 
For  London. 

West.     Spoke  you  with  him  ? 

Ar.     Yes,  my  lord. 

West.     What  brings  he  else  ? 

Ar.     Nothing  of  any  moment. 
ROTHSAY  is  dead,  and  PERCY  fled  from  court. 

West.     PERCY  ! 

Ar.     The  HOTSPUR'S  son. 

West.     Fled !— whither  ? 

Ar.     Westward, 

Some  say,  with  young  Lord  DOUGLASS  to  the  Isles ; 
Though  others  think  to  France. 

West.     Degenerate  stripling !     Fled  !     How  long  ago  ? 

Ar.     Two  months,  my  lord,  he  doth  report,  and  more. 

West.     If  but  a  spark — (Pausing) — No  fear, — one  night 

on  straw 

Would  send  him  with  a  quartan  home  to  nurse. 
But  this  curled  minion's  father,  long  ago, 
Had  shook  my  gates  with  Scotland  at  his  back ; 
Or,  baffled  there,  like  some  grey  Palmer  knocked, 
With  scrip,  and  scallop,  craving  charity, 
Harper,  or  Beadsman,  muttering  for  the  damned, 
And  drenched  our  hospitable  hearths  with  blood. 
Rough  HOTSPUR,  sooner  than  in  exile  languish, 
Ay,  rather,  if  the  spleen  of  fight  were  on, 
Unarmed  would  mount,  and,  with  a  frail  ash  spear, 
Tilt  with  the  Fiend,  than  speak  in  courtesy. 

Ar.     What  thinks  my  lord  ?   Were  this  fierce  chief  alive, 
Or  any  valiant  scion  of  his  stock, 
Would  HENRY,  on  submission  at  his  throne, 
Restore  their  honors  ? 

West.     Restore  !     Northumberland  is  mine  :  who  takes 
Must  win  it.     PERCY  lorded  o'er  the  North 
Too  proudly,  and  is  sunk  to  rise  no  more. 
The  Sire  and  the  Son  set  BOLINGBROKE  aloft, 
Meaning  to  rule  the  King  they  made  ;  but  soon 
Finding  a  check  on  their  omnipotence, 

16* 


186  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Their  vengeful  arms  they  turned  ;  denounced  his  ruin  ; 
Drew  half  the  kingdom  to  revolt,  and  clave 
Almost  the  diadem. 

Ar.     Audacious  traitors ! 

West.     Their  fortune  hit  the  planetary  hour 
They,  erring,  thought,  and  sun  and  moon  must  bow, 
With  humble  adoration,  to  the  star 
Of  their  nativity.     And,  had  not  I 
Outwitted  YORK,  dispersed  his  power,  and  seized 
Mow  BRAY  and  him,  we  now  had  drudged  for  bread, 
Cursing  the  pittance  doled  by  MORTIMER  ; 
While  grey-beard  PERCY  gored  us  with  his  rule, 
Counting  each  drop  expiatory  blood 
For  HOTSPUR'S  death. 

Ar.     And  does  my  lord  fear  aught  from  HOTSPUR'S  son  ? 

West.     The  Piper !  Lady  Regent's  toilet-man  ? 
Whose  soul,  in  travail  of  a  sonnet,  faints, 
Seven  times  a  day,  entranced  upon  a  lute  ? 
Alack !  down-beds,  perfumes,  carpets,  and  ladies, 
He  covets  more  than  cold  night-watches,  sheathed 
In  arms,  steel  pillows,  and  the  smell  of  war. 

Ar.     Strange  tales  of  him  the  crones  and  Gipseys  tell. 
Some  say  the  noble  babe  was  stolen  by  Fairies, 
Who  left  a  changeling  imp ;  some,  that  Night-hags 
Blasted  the  cradle — 

West.     Would  the  name  were  blasted, 
Rased  and  forgot !     Rebellion  's  in  their  ashes, 
And  taints  the  air  that  blows  upon  my  vassals. 
Fools  cry,  A  miracle !  when  nature  sports. 
'T  was  thus  when  EDWARD'S  lion-mettled  stock 
To  RICHARD  shrunk.     The  Scottish  Regent  strove 
To  rear  him  up  a  scourge  and  thorn  to  me ; 
Schooled  him  in  every  noble  exercise, 
And  sought  the  promise  of  his  youth  to  prove, 
For,  in  his  boyhood,  sparks  like  PERCY  shone ; 
But 't  was  a  bootless  toil. — Look  to  the  steed.     [Exit. 

Ar.     Buried  in  the  dear  ashes  thou  dishonorest, 
That  spark,  proud  WESTMORELAND,  thou  'It  find 
Alive  for  fatal  mischief.    .Blest  delusion ! 
For  once,  thank  HEAVEN,  my  better  star  prevails.     [Exit. 


DR.     SOLYMAN     BROWN. 


SOLYMAN    BROWN, 


[Born  1790.] 

SOLYMAN  BROWN  was  born  at  Litchfield,  on  the  17th  of  November, 
1790.  In  1812,  he  was  graduated  at  Yale  College,  and  in  1814 
became  a  Licentiate  of  the  Congregational  Church.  For  the  space 
of  seven  years  he  exercised  occasionally  his  professional  duties, 
being  also  engaged  in  the  instruction  of  youth  j  but  a  severe  hem 
orrhage  of  the  lungs  with  which  he  had  been  afflicted  during  his  Junior 
year  in  college,  having  been  followed  by  feeble  health  and  irritability 
of  the  bronchia,  he  was  compelled  almost  entirely  to  relinquish  public 
speaking,  and  to  make  the  business  of  teaching  his  profession. 

In  1812,  Mr.  BROWN  removed  to  New  York,  to  pursue  his  labors 
as  a  classical  instructor.  Here  he  embraced  the  doctrines  of 
EMMANUEL  SWEDENBORG,  and  was  constituted  a  regular  preacher  of 
the  New  Jerusalem  Church.  He  still  continued  to  teach,  however, 
until  1832,  when  he  was  invited  to  enter  the  family  of  Dr.  PARMELY, 
the  eminent  Surgeon  Dentist,  for  the  purpose  of  acquiring  a  knowledge 
of  his  art.  Having  established  himself  in  this  new  profession,  he 
married,  in  1834,  ELIZABETH  BUTLER,  daughter  of  AMOS  BUTLER, 
Esq.,  for  many  years  Editor  and  Proprietor  of  "The  New  York 
Mercantile  Advertiser,"  and  has  since  continued  to  make  the  city  of 
New  York  his  residence.  Dr.  BROWN  is  an  enthusiast  in  his 
profession,  having  published  two  poems  and  a  number  of  essays 
elucidating  its  rules  and  principles,  and  for  the  last  two  years  has 
been  one  of  the  editors  of  "  The  American  Journal  and  Library  of 
Dental  Science."  He  has  also  amused  himself  at  times  by  some 
efforts  in  Sculpture,  which  have  indicated  no  small  degree  of  talent 
for  that  noble  art. 

In  1818,  our  author  published  a  volume  at  New  Haven,  comprising 
"  An  Essay  on  American  Poetry,"  together  with  several  miscella 
neous  articles.  In  1833,  appeared  "  Dentologia,  a  Poem  on  the 
Diseases  of  the  Teeth  ;"  and  in  1838,  "  Dental  Hygeia,  a  Poem  on 
the  General  Laws  of  Health."  Beside  these  writings,  Dr.  BROWN 
has  been  for  many  years  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  periodical 
press,  and  especially  to  the  columns  of  "  The  New  York  Mirror." 

"  Dentologia "  is  one  of  the  numerous  class  of  poems,  of  which 
ARMSTRONG'S  "  Art  of  Preserving  Health  "  is  a  prominent  example. 


188 


POETS    OF    CONNECTICUT. 


Dr.  BROWN,  in  the  first  canto  of  his  poem,  pleasantly  alludes  to  the 
difficulty  at  all  times  attending  such  efforts  : 

"  Full  well  I  know  't  is  difficult  to  chime 
The  laws  of  science  with  the  rules  of  rhyme  : 
Plain,  vulgar  prose  my  subject  seems  to  claim, 
Did  not  ambition  prompt  the  higher  aim, 
The  nobler  pride,  by  more  laborious  care, 
To  speak  in  numbers  that  shall  please  the  fair." 

He  has,  however,  succeeded  in  throwing  the  precepts  of  his  art  into 
very  harmonious  numbers,  and  in  interweaving  many  happy  illustra 
tions.  His  fugitive  poems  often  discover  a  playful  fancy,  and  a  heart 
peculiarly  alive  to  the  charms  of  domestic  and  social  happiness. 


LIVING    BEAUTY.* 
No  goddess  born  in  blue-eyed  JUNO'S  reign, 
Or  fair-haired  sister  of  APOLLO'S  train, 
No  coy  and  quivered  Driad  of  the  woods, 
Or  laughing  Naiad  of  the  dashing  floods, 
Do  I  invoke  : — ye  fabled  forms — retire  ! 
Let  breathing  loveliness  my  notes  inspire  : 
To  thee,  my  cherished  friend !  the  strains  belong, 
And  living  beauty  animates  my  song. 

This  magic  spell  that  mirrors  every  grace 
Of  woman's  heart,  in  lovely  woman's  face  ; 
This  speaking  index  of  the  polished  mind, 
In  virtue  pure,  by  virgin  truth  refined — 
Is  love's  own  banner,  gracefully  unfurled, 
To  fix  affection,  and  enchant  the  world. 

Without  its  aid,  how  hard  were  woman's  lot ! 
To  sigh  neglected,  and  to  die  forgot ; 
Though  nature's  genial  fires  unceasing  burn, 
To  live  unloved,  and  love  without  return ! 
For  well  we  know  that  all  of  human  kind, 
Read  in  the  face  the  features  of  the  mind ; 
The  soul's  bright  forms  for  ever  fresh  and  fair, 
Wit,  worth,  and  modesty,  are  pictured  there. 

*  From  the  first  canto  of  "  Dentologia." 


DR.     SOLYMAN     BROWN. 


189 


Say  not — perverted  taste  alone  descries 
An  intellectual  light  in  radiant  eyes  ; 
Nor  think  LAVATER'S  favorite  science  vain, 
That  guides  the  choice  of  every  rural  swain, 
In  search  of  worthy  love  : — for  well  he  knows, 
That  when  the  graceful  meadow-lily  blows, 
'T  is  genial  Spring  ;  and  when  the  mantling  vine 
Round  the  gray  oak  its  wreaths  is  seen  to  twine, 
Laden  with  purple  fruit — that  Summer's  showers 
Have  nursed  to  life  the  verdure  and  the  flowers. 
So,  in  the  features  of  MYRTILLA'S  face, 
The  rustic  CORYDON  has  learned  to  trace 
Each  soft  affection  of  her  glowing  mind  ; 
With  what  delighted,  and  to  whom  inclined. 

You  say,  perchance,  "Is  woman  then  approved 
For  outward  charms,  and  but  for  those  beloved  ? 
Shall  form  and  feature  for  all  faults  atone, 
And  mere  external  beauty  reign  alone  ? 
By  reasoning  man  is  mental  worth  despised, 
And  but  for  pageantry  is  woman  prized  ? " 
'T  is  well  inquired  ;  but  mark  the  just  reply  : 
As  glittering  stars  adorn  the  cloudless  sky, 
And  smiling  rainbows,  when  the  storm  is  done, 
Announce  the  bursting  splendors  of  the  sun  ; 
So  beams  of  lambent  light  that  sportive  play 
In  woman's  face,  proclaim  interior  day ; 
And  modest  sweetness,  with  that  light  combined, 
Bespeaks  her  nature  gentle  and  refined. 

Thus,  too,  the  cherub  graces  that  adorn 
The  smiling  babe  in  childhood's  sunny  morn, 
Reveal  the  pureness  of  that  virtue  given, 
The  charm  of  earth  and  miniature  of  heaven. 

Nor  less  does  manhood's  firmer  brow  disclose 
The  master  passion  whence  his  action  flows. 
If  glory,  lucre,  love,  his  heart  inspire, 
See  in  his  lineaments  the  raging  fire  ; 


190  POETS    OF    CONNECTICUT. 

•^-^-^^^X-^-^N ^x-^y-s ^*^^x>^^_/^^-^_^_^^^>_x•^_^_^_>-^^-^^-v^^ 

If  war  impel,  behold  him  charge  the  foe, 
His  eyes'  red  lightning  mingling  with  the  blow ; 
In  search  of  gold,  see  meanness  in  his  air, 
And  GRIPUS'  sordid  wrinkles  furrowed  there : 
Or,  fired  with  love,  survey  his  altered  mien ; 
Fair  vernal  blossoms  decorate  the  scene, 
From  every  flower  the  honeyed  sweet  he  sips, 
And  burning  eloquence  is  on  his  lips. 

In  times  of  old,  those  happier  golden  years, 
Ere  man  had  learned  to  drink  the  orphan's  tears, 
And  widow's  sighs,  and  count  them  richest  wine, 
What  beauty  decked  the  "  human  face  divine  ! " 
Then  all  was  loveliness  : — the  ruling  soul 
Held  o'er  the  world  unlimited  control ; 
The  forest  knew  no  monster ;  and  the  grove 
No  voice  but  that  of  melody  and  love  : 
While  man  acknowledged  virtue  as  his  guide, 
The  lamb  and  lion  slumbered  at  his  side  ; 
'T  was  then  nor  thorn  nor  thistle  cursed  the  soil, 
But  plenty  crowned  the  gatherer's  pleasing  toil ; 
Nor  plague  nor  tempest  in  such  skies  appear, 
But  health  and  sunshine  circle  round  the  year. 

And  who  can  tell,  when  virtue  soars  away 
To  range  the  fields  of  unexpiring  day, 
Where  love  unveils  her  charms  to  every  eye, 
And  truth  unrobes  his  manly  majesty ; 
Say,  who  can  tell  how  beautiful  and  fair 
Those  angel-forms,  those  heavenly  natures  are  ? 


SERAPHINA.* 


On  yonder  hill,  which  freshening  shades  invest, 
Beneath  whose  spreading  boughs  for  ever  rest 
The  mouldering  ashes  of  the  son  and  sire, 
The  village  church  erects  its  modest  spire. 

*  From  the  fifth  canto  of  "  Dentologia." 


DR.     SOLYMAN     BROWN.  191 

Behold  each  Sabbath  morn,  with  measured  pace, 
The  silent  groups  that  seek  that  hallowed  place  ; 
And  mark,  how  meek  devotion  worships  there, 
With  heart  uplifted  in  the  hour  of  prayer. 

The  morning  song  of  love  is  sweetly  sung, 
While  heaven's  own  flame  inspires  each  tuneful  tongue  ; 
And  see — the  venerable  man  appears, 
White  with  the  hoary  frosts  of  threescore  years  ; 
The  good  old  man,  whose  useful  hours  have  flown, 
To  soothe  all  others'  sorrows  but  his  own ; 
Whose  daily  labors  to  mankind  are  given, 
In  charity,  but  all  his  heart  to  heaven. 
So  pure  the  life  this  virtuous  man  has  passed, 
That  all  his  powers  are  perfect  to  the  last ; 
No  borrowed  lock  to  grace  his  brow  aspires  ; 
No  optic  glass  his  vigorous  eye  requires ; 
He  lacks  no  single  tooth  that  nature  gave, 
Nor  asks  a  staff  to  guide  him  to  the  grave. 
With  voice  subdued,  and  unobtrusive  mien, 
He  speaks  of  heaven  ; — he  paints  the  flowery  scene, 
Where  angel-natures — forms  of  purest  love — 
Meet  in  the  bowers  of  innocence  above, 
To  drink  at  living  fountains,  and  be  fed 
On  fruits  immortal,  and  the  living  bread  ; 
Till  gushing  tears  fall  fast  from  every  eye, 
And  Faith  and  Hope  look  smiling  to  the  sky. 

Yet,  in  that  choir  that  sung  the  morning  song, 
One  vacant  seat  afflicts  the  listening  throng ; 
One  well-known  voice,  admired  so  oft  before 
For  sweetest  melody,  is  heard  no  more. 
Is  SERAPHINA  dead,  whose  melting  strains 
Had  won  the  hearts  of  all  the  neighboring  swains? 
Or  does  she  now  forsake  the  house  of  prayer, 
And  spurn  her  venerable  pastor's  care  ? 
Unjust  suspicion  !  tarnish  not  her  fame, 
Nor  let  reproach  attaint  her  spotless  name ; 
For  while  her  mellow  voice  obeyed  her  will, 
She  fondly  lingered,  our  musician  still ; 


192  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

l 

And  though  by  cruel  fate  compelled  to  part, 

She  leaves  us  all  the  homage  of  her  heart. 

To  lonely  solitude  she  gives  her  hours, 

In  shady  copse,  or  shadier  garden-bowers ; 

In  silent  grief,  and  unconsoled,  she  pines, 

And  scarce  to  HEAVEN'S  high  will  her  soul  resigns. 

For,  lo,  the  heavenly  music  of  her  lip — 

So  sweet,  the  laboring  bees  might  stop  to  sip — 

Has  passed  away ;  discordant  notes  succeed, 

And  SERAPHINA'S  bosom  lives  to  bleed. 

Ye  ask  the  cause  : — by  premature  decay, 
Two  of  her  dental  pearls  have  passed  away; 
The  two  essential  to  those  perfect  strains, 
That  charm  the  soul  when  heavenly  music  reigns. 
But  fly,  ye  swains,  to  SERAPHINA  fly, 
And  bid  her  fastly  flowing  tears  be  dry ; 
Haste  to  her  cottage,  where  in  vain  she  seeks 
To  wipe  the  burning  deluge  from  her  cheeks  ; 
And  when  ye  find  her,  soothe  her  frantic  mind, 
And  bid  her  cast  her  sorrows  to  the  wind ; 
In  secret  whisper,  this  kind  truth  impart — 
There  is  a  remedy : — the  dental  art 
Can  every  varying  tone  with  ease  restore, 
And  give  thee  sweeter  music  than  before ! 


TO   ELIZABETH. 

'T  was  when  thy  years  were  tender,  love  ! 

And  beauty's  budding  rose 
Was  on  thy  cheek,  like  summer's  tint 

On  Alps'  eternal  snows  ; 
And  when  thy  maiden  thoughts  were  pure 

As  dew-drops  on  the  lawn, 
Or  virgin  breeze  that  fanned  the  flowers 

On  Eden's  natal  dawn  : 
'T  was  then  our  hopes,  our  fears,  our  joys, 

Our  sorrows  were  begun  ; 
And  then  our  hearts,  like  kindred  drops, 

Were  mingled  into  one. 


DR.     SOLYMAN     BROWN.  193 

And  years  have  flown  since  first  we  met, 

And  many  a  smile  and  tear 
Have  marked  the  hours,  the  days,  the  months 

Of  each  revolving  year  ; 
The  joys  of  hope,  the  pangs  of  fear, 

Have  proved  their  varying  powers, 
And  Fancy  used  our  waking  thoughts 

To  gild  our  dreaming  hours  : 
Thus  Time  may  roll  his  chariot  on, 

Till  all  his  race  be  run, 
And  find  our  hearts,  like  kindred  drops, 

Still  mingling  into  one. 

Deluded  man  may  search  for  bliss 

In  power,  or  fame,  or  wealth ; 
I  seek  the  joys  of  wedded  love, 

Of  competence  and  health. 
To  these  let  HEAVEN  in  mercy  add, 

From  love's  exhausted  store, 
A  heart  that  glows  with  charity, 

And  I  would  ask  no  more ; 
For  then,  like  thine,  in  paths  of  truth, 

My  hast'ning  steps  shall  run, 
And  thus  our  hearts,  like  kindred  drops, 

Shall  mingle  into  one. 

Ye  glittering  gems  that  ceaseless  gild 

The  azure  robe  of  night ! 
Beyond  your  spheres  shall  Love  reveal 

A  world  of  holier  light : 
There  fairer  stars,  in  purer  skies, 

O'er  greener  fields  shall  move, 
Where  every  thought  is  perfect  truth, 

And  each  affection,  love  : 
There  shall  we,  dearest,  ever  gaze 

On  heaven's  unclouded  sun  ; 
And  there  our  hearts,  like  kindred  drops, 

Be  mingled  into  one. 


1 


194  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 


THE    EMIGRANT'S   FAREWELL. 

Farewell  to  the  land  that  my  fathers  defended ; 

Farewell  to  the  fields  which  their  ashes  inurn ; 
The  holiest  flame  on  their  altars  descended, 

Which,  fed  by  their  sons,  shall  eternally  burn. 
Ah !  soft  be  the  bed  where  the  hero  reposes  ! 
And  light  be  the  green  turf  that  over  him  closes  ! 
Gay  FLORA  shall  deck  with  her  earliest  roses, 

The  graves  of  my  sires,  and  the  land  of  my  birth. 

Adieu  to  the  scenes  which  my  heart's  young  emotions 
Have  dressed  in  attire  so  alluringly  gay ; 

Ah !  never,  no  never  can  billowy  oceans, 
Nor  time,  drive  the  fond  recollections  away ! 

From  days  that  are  past  present  comfort  I  borrow  ; 

The  scenes  of  to-day  shall  be  brighter  to-morrow ; 

In  age  I  '11  recall,  as  a  balm  for  my  sorrow, 

The  graves  of  my  sires,  and  the  land  of  my  birth. 

I  go  to  the  West,  where  the  forest,  receding, 
Invites  the  adventurous  axe-man  along ; 

I  go  to  the  groves  where  the  wild  deer  are  feeding, 
And  mountain-birds  carol  their  loveliest  song. 

Adieu  to  the  land  that  my  fathers  defended ! 

Adieu  to  the  soil  on  which  freemen  contended ! 

Adieu  to  the  sons  who  from  heroes  descended ! 

The  graves  of  my  sires,  and  the  land  of  my  birth. 

When  far  from  my  home,  and  surrounded  by  strangers, 

My  thoughts  shall  recall  the  gay  pleasures  of  youth ; 

Though  life's  stormy  ocean  shall  threaten  with  dangers, 

My  soul  shall  repose  in  the  sunshine  of  truth. 
While  streams  to  their  own  native  Ocean  are  tending, 
And  forest-oaks,  swept  by  the  tempest,  are  bending, 
My  soul  shall  exult,  as  she  's  proudly  defending 

The  graves  of  my  sires,  and  the  land  of  my  birth. 


MRS.     LYDIA     H.      SIGOURNEY. 


195 


MRS.    LYDIA    HUNTLEY    SIGOURNEY. 


[Born  1791.] 


MRS.  LYDIA  HUNTLEY  SIGOURNEY  is  the  only  child  of  the  late 
EZEKIEL  HUNTLEY,  of  Norwich,  where  she  was  born  on  the  1st  of 
September,  1791.  Her  parents  afforded  her  an  excellent  education, 
and  were  amply  compensated  by  her  rapid  improvement.  At  eight 
years  of  age  she  began  to  develope  those  poetical  talents  which  have 
since  made  her  name  so  widely  and  favorably  known.  Doubtless  the 
picturesque  scenery,  by  \vhich  she  was  early  surrounded,  contributed 
to  inspire  and  cherish  a  love  for  the  beautiful  in  the  works  of  Nature. 
The  haunts  of  her  childhood,  still  cherished  among  her  fondest 
recollections,  are  beautifully  commemorated  in  her  verse : 

" sweetly  wild, 


Were  the  scenes  that  charmed  me  when  a  child : 

Rocks,  gray  rocks,  with  their  caverns  dark, 

Leaping  rills,  like  the  diamond  spark, 

Torrent  voices,  thundering  by, 

When  the  pride  of  the  vernal  floods  swelled  high, 

And  quiet  roofs,  like  the  hanging  nest, 

Mid  cliffs,  by  the  feathery  foliage  drest ! " 

After  enjoying  the  advantages  of  the  schools  of  her  native  town, 
and  attending  for  some  time  a  boarding-school  in  Hartford,  Miss 
HUNTLEY,  in  connection  with  a  friend  of  kindred  spirit,  NANCY 
MARIA  HYDE,  opened  a  select  school  for  young  ladies  in  Norwich, 
which  she  continued  for  two  years.  Subsequently  she  removed  to 
Hartford,  where,  for  several  years,  she  was  engaged,  with  much 
success,  in  a  similar  pursuit. 

In  1815,  Miss  HUNTLEY  was  induced  by  her  revered  friend,  DANIEL 
WADSWORTH,  Esq.,  to  give  a  volume  of  poems  to  the  public.  The 
articles  composing  it  were  selected  by  Mr.  WADSWORTH,  who  also 
defrayed  the  expense  of  publication.  It  was  entitled  "  Moral  Pieces 
in  Prose  and  Verse."  On  the  death  of  her  former  associate,  Miss 
HYDE,  in  1816,  she  also  performed  the  last  duty  of  friendship  by 
editing  a  volume  of  her  remains,  accompanied  by  a  biographical 
sketch.  In  1819,  Miss  HUNTLEY  was  married  to  CHARLES  SIGOUR 
NEY,  Esq.,  a  leading  merchant  of  Hartford,  and  a  gentleman  of 
education  and  literary  taste. 


196  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

The  poetical  publications  of  Mrs.  SIGOURNEY  have  been  very 
numerous.  Beside  the  volumes  above  mentioned,  appeared  at  Cam 
bridge,  in  Massachusetts,  in  1822,  "  Traits  of  the  Aborigines  of 
America  ;"  in  Boston,  in  1828,  a  volume  of  "  Poems  ;"  in  Hartford, 
in  1833,  "Poetry  for  Children;"  in  Philadelphia,  in  1834,  "Select 
Poems ;"  and  in  New  York,  in  1835,  "  Zinzendorf.  and  other  Poems." 
In  August,  in  1840,  Mrs.  SIGOURNEY  sailed  for  Europe.  She  visited 
England,  Scotland,  and  France,  and  returned  in  April  of  the  following 
year.  While  in  England  she  published,  from  the  London  press, 
"  Poems,"  in  two  volumes  ;  and  since  her  return  have  appeared  in 
New  York,  in  1841,  "  Pocahontas,  and  other  Poems  ;"  in  Philadel 
phia,  also,  in  the  same  year,  a  volume  of  "  Poems ; "  and  early  in 
1843,  in  Boston,  "  Pleasant  Memories  of  Pleasant  Lands,"  a  volume 
of  prose  and  verse,  suggested,  as  its  title  indicates,  by  the  interesting 
scenes  of  foreign  travel. 

Mrs.  SIGOURNEY  is  also  amongst  the  most  popular  prose  writers  of 
the  day.  "  Connecticut  Forty  Years  Since,"  she  published  in  1824, 
and  since  that  period,  a  volume  of  "  Sketches,"  "  Letters  to  Young 
Ladies,"  "  Letters  to  Mothers,"  and  several  minor  works. 

The  poems  of  Mrs.  SIGOURNEY  include  almost  every  variety  of 
subject,  yet  all  are  happily  made  to  subserve  a  high  moral  sentiment. 
They  are  characterized  by  harmonious  measure,  felicitous  rhyme, 
great  powers  of  expression,  and  an  almost  unrivalled  purity  of  thought. 
A  heart  of  the  liveliest  and  tenderest  susceptibilities  has  thrown  a 
charm  into  her  verse,  which  has  won  not  only  admiration,  but  esteem 
and  love,  alike  in  the  highest  literary  circles,  and,  we  may  venture 
to  say,  in  every  village  and  hamlet  of  the  land. 


THE   FOREST   GIRL.* 
A  forest-child,  amid  the  flowers  at  play ! 
Her  raven  locks  in  strange  profusion  flowing ; 
A  sweet,  wild  girl,  with  eye  of  earnest  ray, 
And  olive  cheek,  at  each  emotion  glowing ; 
Yet,  whether  in  her  gladsome  frolic  leaping, 
Or  'neath  the  greenwood  shade  unconscious  sleeping, 
Or  with  light  oar  her  fairy  pinnace  rowing, 
Still,  like  the  eaglet  on  its  new-fledged  wing, 
Her  spirit  glance  bespoke  the  daughter  of  a  king. 

But  he,  that  wily  monarch,  stern  and  old, 

Mid  his  grim  chiefs,  with  barbarous  trappings  bright. 

*  From  "  Pocahontas." 


•**r^s-^-s+*s-+*s—  -J 

197  I 


MRS.     LYDIA     H.    SIGOURNEY. 

That  morn  a  court  of  savage  state  did  hold ! 
The  sentenced  captive  see — his  brow  how  white ! 
Stretched  on  the  turf  his  manly  form  lies  low, 
The  war-club  poises  for  its  fatal  blow, 
The  death-mist  swims  before  his  darkened  sight : 
Forth  springs  the  'child,  in  tearful  pity  bold, 
Her  head  on  his  declines,  her  arms  his  neck  enfold. 

"  The  child  !  what  madness  fires  her  ?    Hence  !    Depart ! 
Fly,  daughter,  fly !  before  the  death-stroke  rings  ; 
Divide  her,  warriors,  from  that  English  heart!" 
In  vain !  for  with  convulsive  grasp  she  clings  : 
She  claims  a  pardon  from  her  frowning  sire  ; 
Her  pleading  tones  subdue  his  gathered  ire  ; 
And  so,  uplifting  high  his  feathery  dart, 
That  doating  father  gave  the  child  her  will, 
And  bade  the  victim  live,  and  be  his  servant  still. 

Know'st  thou  what  thou  hast  done,  thou  dark-haired  child  ? 
What  great  events  on  thy  compassion  hung  ? 
What  prowess  lurks  beneath  yon  aspect  mild, 
And  in  the  accents  of  that  foreign  tongue  ? 
As  little  knew  the  princess  who  descried 
A  floating  speck  on  Egypt's  turbid  tide, 
A  bulrush-ark  the  matted  reeds  among — 
And,  yielding  to  an  infant's  tearful  smile, 
Drew  forth  JEHOVAH'S  seer,  from  the  devouring  Nile. 

In  many  a  clime,  in  many  a  battle  tried, 
By  Turkish  sabre  and  by  Moorish  spear ; 
Mid  Afric's  sands,  or  Russian  forests  wide, 
Romantic,  bold,  chivalrous,  and  sincere, 
Keen-eyed,  clear-minded,  and  of  purpose  pure, 
Dauntless  to  rule,  or  patient  to  endure, 
Was  he  whom  thou  hast  rescued  with  a  tear ; 
Thou  wert  the  saviour  of  the  Saxon  vine, 
And  for  this  deed  alone  our  praise  and  love  are  thine. 

Nor  yet  for  this  alone  shall  History's  scroll 
Embalm  thine  image  with  a  grateful  tear ; 
For  when  the  grasp  of  famine  tried  the  soul, 
When  strength  decayed,  and  dark  despair  was  near, 


Who  led  her  train  of  playmates,  day  by  day, 
O'er  rock,  and  stream,  and  wild,  a  weary  way, 
Their  baskets  teeming  with  the  golden  ear  ? 
Whose  generous  hand  vouchsafed  its  tireless  aid 
To  guard  a  nation's  germ?     Thine,  thine,  heroic  maid 


THE    BRIDAL.* 

A  throng  is  gathering  ;  for  the  hallowed  dome 
At  evening-tide  is  rich  with  sparkling  light ; 
And  from  its  verdant  bound  each  rural  home 
Sends  forth  its  blossomed  gifts,  profusely  bright ; 
While  here  and  there,  amid  the  clustering  flowers, 
Some  stately  chief  or  painted  warrior  towers, 
Hailed  as  a  brother  mid  the  festal  rite  : 
Peace  waves  her  garland  o'er  the  favored  place 
Where  weds  the  new-born  West,  with  Europe's  lordly  race. 

A  group  before  the  altar.     Breathe  thy  vow, 
Loving  and  stainless  one,  without  a  fear ; 
For  he  who  wins  thee  to  his  bosom  now, 
Gem  of  the  wild,  unparalleled  and  dear, 
WTill  guard  thee  ever,  as  his  treasure  rare, 
With  changeless  tenderness  and  constant  care ; 
How  speaks  his  noble  brow  a  soul  sincere, 
While  the  old  white-haired  king,  with  eye  of  pride, 
Gives  to  his  ardent  hand  the  timid,  trusting  bride. 

Not  with  more  heartfelt  joy  the  warlike  bands 
Of  Albion,  spent  with  long,  disastrous  fray, 
Beheld  young  TUDOR  cleanse  his  blood-stained  hands, 
And  lead  the  blooming  heir  of  YORK  away, 
'Neath  the  sweet  music  of  the  marriage  bells  ; 
Then  on  those  tented  hills  and  ravaged  dells 
The  WTar  of  Roses  died :  no  more  the  ray 
Of  white  or  red,  the  fires  of  hate  illumed, 
But  from  their  blended  roots  the  rose  of  Sharon  bloomed. 

Young  wife,  how  beautiful  the  months  swept  by! 
Within  thy  bower  methinks  I  view  thee  still : 

*  From  the  same. 


MRS.     LYDIA     H.     SIGOURNEY.  199 

The  meek  observance  of  thy  lifted  eye 
Bent  on  thy  lord,  and  prompt  to  do  his  will — 
The  care  for  him,  the  happiness  to  see 
His  soul's  full  confidence  repose  in  thee — 
The  sacrifice  of  self,  the  ready  skill 
In  duty's  path,  the  love  without  alloy — 
These  gave  each  circling  year  a  brighter  crown  of  joy. 

Out  on  the  waters  !     On  the  deep,  deep  sea ! 
Out,  out  upon  the  waters !     Surging  foam, 
Swelled  by  the  winds,  rolls  round  her  wild  and  free, 
And  memory  wandereth  to  her  distant  home, 
To  fragrant  gales,  the  blossomed  boughs  that  stir, 
To  the  sad  sire  who  fondly  dreams  of  her ; 
But  kindling  smiles  recall  the  thoughts  that  roam ; 
For  at  her  side  a  bright-haired  nursling  plays, 
While  bends  her  bosom's  lord  with  fond,  delighted  gaze. 

Arid  this  is  woman's  world.     It  matters  not 
Though  in  the  trackless  wilderness  she  dwell, 
Or  on  the  cliff  where  hangs  the  Switzer's  cot, 
Or  in  the  subterranean  Greenland  cell : 
Her  world  is  in  the  heart.     Rude  storms  may  rise, 
And  dark  eclipse  involve  ambition's  skies ; 
But  dear  affection's  flame  burns  pure  and  well, 
And  therefore  't  is,  with  such  a  placid  eye, 
She  soothes  her  loved  one's  pangs,  or  lays  her  down  to  die. 


THE   DEATH-SCENE.* 

Sunset  in  England  at  the  autumn  prime ! 
Through  foliage  rare,  what  floods  of  light  were  sent ! 
The  full  and  whitening  harvest  knew  its  time, 
And  to  the  sickle  of  the  reaper  bent ; 
Forth  rode  the  winged  seeds  upon  the  gale, 
New  homes  to  find ;  but  she,  with  lip  so  pale, 
Who  on  the  arm  of  her  beloved  leant, 
Breathed  words  of  tenderness,  with  smile  serene, 
Though  faint  and  full  of  toil,  the  gasp  and  groan  between. 


200 


"  Oh,  dearest  friend,  Death  cometh !     He  is  here, 
Here  at  my  heart !     Air !  air  !  that  I  may  speak 
My  hoarded  love,  my  gratitude  sincere, 
To  thee  and  to  thy  people.     But  I  seek 
In  vain.     Though  most  unworthy,  yet  I  hear 
A  call,  a  voice  too  blessed  for  mortal  ear ; " 
And  with  a  marble  coldness  on  her  cheek, 
And  one  long  moan,  like  breaking  harp-string  sweet, 
She  bare  the  unspoken  love  to  her  Redeemer's  feet. 

Gone  ?   Gone  !  Alas  !  the  burst  of  wild  despair 
That  rent  his  bosom  who  had  loved  so  well ; 
He  had  not  yet  put  forth  his  strength  to  bear, 
So  suddenly  and  sore  the  death-shaft  fell: 
Man  hath  a  godlike  might  in  danger's  hour, 
In  the  red  battle,  or  the  tempest's  power ; 
Yet  is  he  weak  when  tides  of  anguish  swell ; 
Ah,  who  can  mark  with  cold  and  tearless  eyes 
The  grief  of  stricken  man  when  his  sole  idol  dies  ! 

And  she  had  fled,  in  whom  his  heart's  deep  joy 
Was  garnered  up ;  fled,  like  the  rushing  flame, 
And  left  no  farewell  for  her  fair  young  boy. 
Lo !  in  his  nurse's  arms  he  careless  came, 
A  noble  creature,  with  his  full  dark  eye 
And  clustering  curls,  in  nature's  majesty  ; 
But,  with  a  sudden  shriek,  his  mother's  name 
Burst  from  his  lips,  and,  gazing  on  the  clay, 
He  stretched  his  eager  arms  where  the  cold  sleeper  lay. 

"  Oh  mother  !  mother  ! "     Did  that  bitter  cry 
Send  a  shrill  echo  through  the  realm  of  death  ? 
Look,  to  the  trembling  fringes  of  the  eye ! 
List,  the  sharp  shudder  of  returning  breath, 
The  spirit's  sob  !     They  lay  him  on  her  breast ; 
One  long,  long  kiss  on  his  bright  brow  she  pressed ; 
Even  from  heaven's  gate  of  bliss  she  lingereth, 
To  breathe  one  blessing  o'er  his  precious  head, 
And  then  her  arm  unclasps,  and  she  is  of  the  dead. 

The  dead !  the  sainted  dead !  why  should  we  weep 
At  the  last  change  their  settled  features  take  ? 


At  the  calm  impress  of  that  holy  sleep 
Which  care  and  sorrow  never  more  shall  break  ? 
Believe  we  not  His  word  who  rends  the  tomb, 
And  bids  the  slumberers  from  that  transient  gloom 
In  their  Redeemer's  glorious  image  wake  ? 
Approach  we  not  the  same  sepulchral  bourne, 
Swift  as  the  shadow  fleets?     What  time  have  we  to  mourn  ? 


THE   AMERICAN    INDIANS.* 

Like  the  fallen  leaves  those  forest-tribes  have  fled : 
Deep  'neath  the  turf  their  rusted  weapon  lies  ; 
No  more  their  harvest  lifts  its  golden  head, 
Nor  from  their  shaft  the  stricken  red-deer  flies : 
But  from  the  far,  far  west,  where  holds,  so  hoarse, 
The  lonely  Oregon,  its  rock-strewn  course, 
While  old  Pacific's  sullen  surge  replies, 
Are  heard  their  exiled  murmurings,  deep  and  low, 
Like  one  whose  smitten  soul  departeth  full  of  wo. 

I  would  ye  were  not,  from  your  fathers'  soil, 
Tracked  like  the  dun  wolf,  ever  in  your  breast 
The  coal  of  vengeance  and  the  curse  of  toil ; 
I  would  we  had  not  to  your  mad  lip  prest 
The  fiery  poison-cup,  nor  on  ye  turned 
The  blood-toothed  ban-dog,  foaming,  as  he  burned 
To  tear  your  flesh ;  but  thrown  in  kindness  blessed 
The  brother's  arm  around  ye,  as  ye  trod, 
And  led  ye,  sad  of  heart,  to  the  blessed  Lamb  of  GOD. 

Forgotten  race,  farewell !     Your  haunts  we  tread  ; 
Our  mighty  rivers  speak  your  words  of  yore  ; 
Our  mountains  wear  them  on  their  misty  head ; 
Our  sounding  cataracts  hurl  them  to  the  shore : 
But  on  the  lake  your  flashing  oar  is  still ; 
Hushed  is  your  hunter's  cry  on  dale  and  hill ; 
Your  arrow  stays  the  eagle's  flight  no  more  ; 
And  ye,  like  troubled  shadows,  sink  to  rest 
In  unremembered  tombs,  unpitied  and  unblessed. 

*  From  the  conclusion  of  the  same. 


202 


POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 


The  council-fires  are  quenched,  that  erst  so  red 
Their  midnight  volume  mid  the  groves  entwined ; 
King,  stately  chief,  and  warrior-host  are  dead, 
Nor  remnant  nor  memorial  left  behind  : 
-But  thou,  Oh  forest-princess,  true  of  heart, 
When  o'er  our  fathers  waved  destruction's  dart, 
Shalt  in  their  children's  loving  hearts  be  shrined ; 
Pure,  lonely  star,  o'er  dark  oblivion's  wave, 
It  is  not  meet  thy  name  should  moulder  in  the  grave. 


THE   RETURN   OF   NAPOLEON 

From  St.  Helena. 

Ho  !  city  of  the  gay ! 

Paris  !  what  festal  rite 
Doth  call  thy  thronging  million  forth, 

All  eager  for  the  sight  ? 
Thy  soldiers  line  the  streets 

In  fixed  and  stern  array, 
With  buckled  helm  and  bayonet, 

As  on  the  battle  day. 

By  square,  and  fountain  side, 

Heads  in  dense  masses  rise  ; 
And  tower,  and  battlement,  and  tree, 

Are  studded  thick  with  eyes. 
Comes  there  some  conqueror  home 

In  triumph  from  the  fight, 
With  spoil  and  captives  in  his  train, 

The  trophies  of  his  might  ? 

The  "  Arc  de  Triomphe"  glows! 

A  martial  host  are  nigh ! 
France  pours  in  long  succession  forth 

Her  pomp  of  chivalry. 
No  clarion  marks  their  way, 

No  victor  trump  is  blown  ; 
Why  march  they  on  so  silently, 

Told  by  their  tread  alone  ? 


MRS.     LYDIA     H.     SIGOURNEY. 


203 


Behold  !  in  glittering  show, 

A  gorgeous  car  of  state  ! 
The  white-plumed  steeds,  in  cloth  of  gold, 

Bow  down  beneath  its  weight ; 
And  the  noble  war-horse,  led 

Caparisoned  along, 
Seems  fiercely  for  his  lord  to  ask, 

As  his  red  eye  scans  the  throng. 

Who  rideth  on  yon  car  ? 

The  incense  flameth  high, — 
Comes  there  some  demi-god  of  old  ? 

No  answer  ! — no  reply  ! 
Who  rideth  on  yon  car  ? 

No  shout  his  minions  raise, 
But  by  a  lofty  chapel  dome 

The  muffled  hero  stays, 

A  king  is  standing  there, 

And,  with  uncovered  head 
Receives  him  in  the  name  of  France  : 

Receiveth  whom  ? — the  dead  ? 
Was  he  not  buried  deep 

In  island  cavern  drear, 
Girt  by  the  sounding  ocean  surge  ? 

How  came  that  sleeper  here  ? 

Was  there  no  rest  for  him 

Beneath  a  peaceful  pall, 
That  thus  he  brake  his  stony  tomb, 

Ere  the  strong  angel's  call  ? 
Hark !  Hark  !  the  requiem  swells, 

A  deep,  soul-thrilling  strain ! 
An  echo,  never  to  be  heard 

By  mortal  ear  again. 

A  requiem  for  the  chief, 

Whose  fia^  millions  slew — 
The  soaring  eagle  of  the  Alps, 

The  crushed  at  Waterloo  :- — 


204  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

The  banished  who  returned, 

The  dead  who  rose  again, 
And  rode  in  his  shroud  the  billows  proud, 

To  the  sunny  banks  of  Seine. 

They  laid  him  there  in  state, 

That  warrior  strong  and  bold — 
The  imperial  crown,  with  jewels  bright, 

Upon  his  ashes  cold  ; 
While  round  those  columns  proud 

The  blazoned  banners  wave, 
That  on  a  hundred  fields  he  won, 

With  the  heart's-blood  of  the  brave. 

And  sternly  there  kept  guard 

His  veterans  scarred  and  old, 
Whose  wounds  of  Lodi's  cleaving  bridge, 

Or  purple  Leipsic  told. 
Yes,  there,  with  arms  reversed, 

Slow  pacing,  night  and  day, 
Close  watch  beside  the  coffin  kept 

Those  veterans  grim  and  gray. 

A  cloud  is  on  their  brow, — 

Is  it  sorrow  for  the  dead  ? 
Or  memory  of  the  fearful  strife, 

Where  their  country's  legions  fled  ? 
Of  Borodino's  blood  ? 

Of  Beresina's  wail  ? 
The  horrors  of  that  dire  retreat, 

Which  turned  old  History  pale  ? 

A  cloud  is  on  their  brow, — 

Is  it  sorrow  for  the  dead  ? 
Or  a  shuddering  at  the  wintry  shaft 

By  Russian  tempests  sped  ? 
Where  countless  mounds  of  snow 

Marked  the  poor  conscripts'  grave, 
And,  pierced  by  frost  and  famine,  sank 

The  bravest  of  the  brave  ! 


MRS.     LYDIA     H.     SIGOURNEY. 


A  thousand  trembling  lamps 

The  gathered  darkness  mock, 
And  velvet  drapes  his  hearse,  who  died 

On  bare  Helena's  rock  ; 
And  from  the  altar  near, 

A  never-ceasing  hymn 
Is  lifted  by  the  chanting  priests 

Beside  the  taper  dim. 

Mysterious  One,  and  proud ! 

In  the  land  where  shadows  reign, 
Hast  thou  met  the  flocking  ghosts  of  those 

Who  at  thy  nod  were  slain  ? 
Oh,  when  the  cry  of  that  spectral  host, 

Like  a  rushing  blast  shall  be, 
What  will  thine  answer  be  to  them  ? 

And  what  thy  GOD'S  to  thee  ? 

Paris,  Tuesday,  Dec.  15,  1840. 


THE   WESTERN   EMIGRANT. 

An  axe  rang  sharply  mid  those  forest  shades 
Which  from  creation  toward  the  skies  had  towered 
In  unshorn  beauty.     There,  with  vigorous  arm 
Wrought  a  bold  Emigrant,  and  by  his  side 
His  little  son,  with  question  and  response, 
Beguiled  the  toil. 

"  Boy,  thou  hast  never  seen 

Such  glorious  trees.     Hark,  when  their  giant  trunks 
Fall,  how  the  firm  earth  groans  !     Rememberest  thou 
The  mighty  river,  on  whose  breast  we  sailed, 
So  many  days,  on  toward  the  setting  sun  ? 
Our  own  Connecticut,  compared  to  that, 
Was  but  a  creeping  stream." 

"  Father,  the  brook 

That  by  our  door  went  singing,  where  I  launched 
My  tiny  boat,  with  my  young  playmates  round, 
When  school  was  o'er,  is  dearer  far  to  me, 
Than  all  these  bold,  broad  waters.     To  my  eye 
They  are  as  strangers.     And  those  little  trees 


206 


POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 


My  mother  nurtured  in  the  garden  bound, 
Of  our  first  home,  from  whence  the  fragrant  peach 
Hung  in  its  ripening  gold,  were  fairer,  sure, 
Than  this  dark  forest,  shutting  out  the  day." 

—  "  What,  ho  !  —  my  little  girl  !  "  and  with  light  step 
A  fairy  creature  hasted  toward  her  sire, 

And,  setting  down  the  basket  that  contained 
His  noon's  repast,  looked  upward  to  his  face 
With  sweet  confiding  smile. 

"  See,  dearest,  see, 

That  bright-winged  paroquet,  and  hear  the  song 
Of  yon  gay  red-bird,  echoing  through  the  trees, 
Making  rich  music.     Didst  thou  ever  hear, 
In  far  New  England,  such  a  mellow  tone  ?  " 

—  "  I  had  a  robin  that  did  take  the  crumbs 
Each  night  and  morning,  and  his  chirping  voice 
Did  make  me  joyful,  as  I  went  to  tend 

My  snow-drops.     I  was  always  laughing  then 
In  that  first  home.     I  should  be  happier  now 
Methinks,  if  I  could  find  among  these  dells 
The  same  fresh  violets." 

Slow  night  drew  on, 
And  round  the  rude  hut  of  the  Emigrant 
The  wrathful  spirit  of  the  rising  storm 
Spake  bitter  things.     His  weary  children  slept, 
And  he,  with  head  declined,  sat  listening  long 
To  the  swoln  waters  of  the  Illinois, 
Dashing  against  their  shores. 

Starting  he  spake  — 

"  Wife  !  did  I  see  thee  brush  away  a  tear  ? 
'T  was  even  so.     Thy  heart  was  with  the  halls 
Of  thy  nativity.     Their  sparkling  lights, 
Carpets,  and  sofas,  and  admiring  guests, 
Befit  thee  better  than  these  rugged  walls 
Of  shapeless  logs,  and  this  lone,  hermit-home." 
"  No  —  no.     All  was  so  still  around,  methought 
Upon  mine  ear  that  echoed  hymn  did  steal, 
Which  mid  the  church,  where  erst  we  paid  our  vows, 
So  tuneful  pealed.     But  tenderly  thy  voice 
Dissolved  the  illusion."     And  the  gentle  smile 


MRS.     LYDIA     H.     SIGOURNEY. 


207 


Lighting  her  brow,  the  fond  caress  that  soothed 
Her  waking  infant,  re-assured  his  soul 
That,  wheresoe'er  our  best  affections  dwell, 
And  strike  a  healthful  root,  is  happiness. 
Content,  and  placid,  to  his  rest  he  sank ; 
But  dreams,  those  wild  magicians,  that  do  play 
Such  pranks  when  reason  slumbers,  tireless  wrought 
Their  will  with  him. 

Up  rose  the  thronging  mart 
Of  his  own  native  city — roof  and  spire, 
All  glittering  bright,  in  fancy's  frost-work  ray. 
The  steed  his  boyhood  nurtured  proudly  neighed, 
TJie  favorite  dog  came  frisking  round  his  feet, 
With  shrill  and  joyous  bark — familiar  doors 
Flew  open — greeting  hands  with  his  were  linked 
In  friendship's  grasp — he  heard  the  keen  debate 
•From  congregated  haunts,  where  mind  with  mind 
Doth  blend  and  brighten — and  till  morning  roved 
Mid  the  loved  scenery  of  his  native  land. 


THE   APPEAL.* 


My  Country !  Rouse 


From  thy  deep  trance !  divide  the  long-drawn  veil 
Of  thy  lethargic  slumbers,  and  perceive 
Britannia's  bright  example  ;  she  who  said 
'To  Africa,  "  Be  free."     Awake,  and  hear 
From  heaven's  high  arch  the  awful  question  break, 
"  Where  is  thy  brother  ? "     Wilt  thou  turn  away, 
Answering,  "  I  know  not ! "  with  concealment  vain, 
Or  arrogantly  asking,  "  Why  should  I 
Be  made  my  brother's  keeper  ? " 

View  the  day 

Of  retribution  !  think  how  thou  wilt  bear 
From  thy  Redeemer's  lips  the  fearful  words, 
"  Thy  brother,  perishing  within  thy  gates, 
Thou  saw'st.     Thy  brother  hungered,  was  athirst, 

*  From  the  -conclusion  of  "  Traits  of  the  Aborigines  of  America.' 


j   208  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Was  naked,  and  thou  saw'st  it.     He  was  sick, 
And  thou  withheld'st  the  healing ;  was  in  prison, 
To  Vice  and  Ignorance,  nor  did'st  thou  send 
To  set  him  free."     Oh !  ere  that  hour  of  doom 
Whence  there  is  no  reprieve,  my  Country,  wake 
From  thy  dark  dream  ! 

Blot  from  thT  accusing  scroll 
Those  guilty  traces,  with  repentant  tears : 
Teach  thy  red  brother  in  the  day  of  wrath 
To  stand  before  the  Judge,  and  plead,  "  Forgive ! 
Forgive !  for  he  hath  sent  thine  holy  Word, 
Hath  told  me  of  a  Saviour,  and  diffused 
The  day-beam  o'er  my  darkness.     His  kind  voice 
Taught  me  to  call  thee  Father.     Oh !  forgive 
Those  earthly  wrongs  which  he  hath  well  atoned 
By  pointing  me  to  heaven ! " 

The  time  of  hope, 

And  of  probation,  speeds  on  rapid  wing, 
Swift  and  returnless.     What  thou  hast  to  do, 
Do  with  thy  might.     Haste  !  lift  aloud  thy  voice, 
And  publish  on  the  borders  of  the  pit, 
The  resurrection.     Bid  thy  heralds  bear 
To  thy  own  wilds  Salvation.     Strike  the  harp 
Of  GOD'S  high  praises  mid  thy  deserts  lone, 
And  let  thy  mountains  speak  them.     Lo  !  they  rise 
Wafted  on  every  gale.     From  Afric's  sands, 
From  chill  Siberia,  from  the  restless  wave 
Of  turbid  Ganges,  from  the  spicy  groves, 
And  from  the  sea-green  islands.     Rise  !  and  spread 
That  name  which  must  be  borne  from  sea  to  sea, 
And  from  the  river  to  the  utmost  bounds 
Of  the  wide  world.     Then,  when  the  ransomed  come 
With  gladness  unto  Zion,  thou  shalt  joy 
To  hear  the  vallies  and  the  hills  break  forth 
Before  them  into  singing  ;  thou  shalt  join 
The  raptured  strain,  exulting  that  the  Lord 
JEHOVAH,  GOD  OMNIPOTENT,  doth  reign 
O'er  all  the  earth. 


MRS.     LYDIA     H.     SIGOURNEY.  209 

NIAGARA. 

Flow  on  for  ever,  in  thy  glorious  robe 
Of  terror  and  of  beauty.     Yea,  flow  on 
Unfathomed  and  resistless.     GOD  hath  set 
His  rainbow  on  thy  forehead  :   and  the  cloud 
Mantled  around  thy  feet.     And  He  doth  give 
Thy  voice  of  thunder  power  to  speak  of  Him 
Eternally — bidding  the  lip  of  man 
Keep  silence — and  upon  thy  rocky  altar  pour 
Incense  of  awe-struck  praise. 

Earth  fears  to  lift 

The  insect-trump  that  tells  her  trifling  joys, 
Or  fleeting  triumphs,  mid  the  peal  sublime 
Of  thy  tremendous  hymn.     Proud  Ocean  shrinks 
Back  from  thy  brotherhood,  and  all  his  waves 
Retire  abashed.     For  he  hath  need  to  sleep, 
Sometimes,  like  a  spent  laborer,  calling  home 
His  boisterous  billows,  from  their  vexing  play, 
To  a  long,  dreary  calm  :  but  thy  strong  tide 
Faints  not,  nor  e'er  with  failing  heart,  forgets 
Its  everlasting  lesson,  night  nor  day. 
The  morning  stars  that  hailed  Creation's  birth, 
Heard  thy  hoarse  anthem,  mixing  with  their  song 
JEHOVAH'S  name  ;  and  the  dissolving  fires, 
That  wait  the  mandate  of  the  day  of  doom 
To  wreck  the  earth,  shall  find  it  deep  inscribed 
Upon  thy  rocky  scroll. 

'     The  lofty  trees 

That  list  thy  teachings,  scorn  the  lighter  lore 
Of  the  too  fitful  winds  ;  while  their  young  leaves 
Gather  fresh  greenness  from  thy  living  spray, 
Yet  tremble  at  the  baptism.     Lo  !  yon  birds, 
How  bold  they  venture  near,  dipping  their  wing 
In  all  thy  mist  and  foam.     Perchance  't  is  meet 
For  them  to  touch  thy  garment's  hem,  or  stir 
Thy  diamond  wreath,  who  sport  upon  the  cloud, 
Unblamed,  or  warble  at  the  gate  of  heaven 
Without  reproof.     But,  as  for  us,  it  seems 


210  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Scarce  lawful,  with  our  erring  lips  to  talk 
Familiarly  of  thee.     Methinks,  to  trace 
Thine  awful  features,  with  our  pencil's  point, 
Were  but  to  press  on  Sinai. 

Thou  dost  speak 

Alone  of  GOD,  who  poured  thee  as  a  drop 
From  his  right  hand, — bidding  the  soul  that  looks 
Upon  thy  fearful  majesty,  be  still, 
Be  humbly  wrapped  in  its  own  nothingness, 
And  lose  itself  in  Him. 


BERNARDINE   DU   BORN. 

King  HENRY  sat  upon  his  throne, 

And,  full  of  wrath  and  scorn, 
His  eye  a  recreant  knight  surveyed — 

Sir  BERNARDINE  DU  BORN. 
And  he  that  haughty  glance  returned, 

Like  lion  in  his  lair  ; 
And  loftily  his  unchanged  brow 

Gleamed  through  his  crisped  hair. 

"  Thou  art  a  traitor  to  the  realm, 

Lord  of  a  lawless  band, 
The  bold  in  speech,  the  fierce  in  broil, 

The  troubler  of  our  land  ; 
Thy  castles,  and  thy  rebel-towers, 

Are  forfeit  to  the  crown, 
And  thou  beneath  the  Norman  axe 

Shalt  end  thy  base  renown. 

"  Deign'st  thou  no  word  to  bar  thy  doom, 

Thou  with  strange  madness  fired  ? 
Hath  reason  quite  forsook  thy  breast  ? " 

PLANTAGENET  inquired. 
Sir  BERNARD  turned  him  toward  the  king, 

He  blenched  not  in  his  pride  ; 
"  My  reason  failed,  my  gracious  liege, 

The  year  Prince  HENRY  died." 


MRS.     LYDIA     H.     SIGOURNEY.  211 

Quick  at  that  name  a  cloud  of  woe 

Passed  o'er  the  monarch's  brow ; 
Touched  was  that  bleeding  cord  of  love, 

To  which  the  mightiest  bow. 
Again  swept  back  the  tide  of  years, 

Again  his  first-born  moved — 
The  fair,  the  graceful,  the  sublime, 

The  erring,  yet  beloved. 

And  ever,  cherished  by  his  side, 

One  chosen  friend  was  near, 
To  share  in  boyhood's  ardent  sport 

Or  youth's  untamed  career ; 
With  him  the  merry  chase  he  sought 

Beneath  the  dewy  morn, 
With  him  in  knightly  tourney  rode, 

This  BERNARDINE  DU  BORN. 

Then  in  the  mourning  father's  soul 

Each  trace  of  ire  grew  dim ; 
And  what  his  buried  idol  loved 

Seemed  cleansed  of  guilt  to  him  ; 
And  faintly  through  his  tears  he  spake, 

"  GOD  send  his  grace  to  thee ! 
And  for  the  dear  sake  of  the  dead, 

Go  forth — unscathed  and  free  ! " 


DEATH   OF  AN   INFANT. 

Death  found  strange  beauty  on  that  polished  brow, 
Arid  dashed  it  out.     There  was  a  tint  of  rose 
On  cheek  and  lip.     He  touched  the  veins  with  ice, 
And  the  rose  faded. 

Forth  from  those  blue  eyes 
There  spake  a  wishful  tenderness,  a  doubt 
Whether  to  grieve  or  sleep,  which  innocence 
Alone  may  wear.     With  ruthless  haste  he  bound 
The  silken  fringes  of  those  curtaining  lids 
For  ever. 

There  had  been  a  murmuring  sound, 


212  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

With  which  the  babe  would  claim  its  mother's  ear, 
Charming  her  even  to  tears.     The  spoiler  set 
The  seal  of  silence. 

But  there  beamed  a  smile, 
So  fixed,  so  holy,  from  that  cherub  brow, 
Death  gazed,  and  left  it  there.     He  dared  not  steal 
The  signet-ring  of  heaven ! 


TO   SOUTHEY. 

I  thought  to  see  thee  in  thy  lake-girt  home, 

Thou  of  creative  soul !     I  thought  with  thee 
Amid  thy  mountain  solitudes  to  roam, 

And  hear  the  voice,  whose  echoes  wild  and  free 
Had  strangely  thrilled  me,  when  my  life  was  new, 

With  old  romantic  tales  of  wondrous  lore  ; 
But  ah !  they  told  me  that  thy  mind  withdrew 

Into  its  mystic  cell, — nor  evermore 
Sate  on  the  lip,  in  fond,  familiar  word ; 

Nor  through  the  speaking  eye  her  love  repaid, 
Whose  heart  for  thee  with  ceaseless  care  is  stirred, 

Both  night  and  day ;  upon  the  willow  shade 
Her  sweet  harp  hung.     They  told  me,  and  I  wept, 
As  on  my  pilgrim  way  o'er  England's  vales  I  kept. 


THE   BUTTERFLY. 

A  butterfly  basked  on  a  baby's  grave, 
Where  a  lily  had  chanced  to  grow  : 
"  Why  art  thou  here,  with  thy  gaudy  dye, 
When  she  of  the  blue  and  sparkling  eye, 
Must  sleep  in  the  churchyard  low  ? " 

Then  it  lightly  soared  through  the  sunny  air, 

And  spoke  from  its  shining  track : 
"  I  was  a  worm  till  I  won  my  wings, 
And  she  whom  thou  mourn'st  like  a  seraph  sings 

Wouldst  thou  call  the  blessed  one  back  ? " 


SAMUEL     GRISWOLD     GOODRICH. 


213 


SAMUEL    GRISWOLD    GOODRICH. 

[Born  1793.] 

SAMUEL  GRISWOLD  GOODRICH  was  born  at  Ridgefield,  in  Fairfield 
County,  on  the  19th  of  August,  1793.  His  father  was  the  late  Rev. 
SAMUEL  GOODRICH,  an  influential  clergyman  of  the  Congregational 
Church,  who  exercised  his  ministerial  duties  until  a  very  advanced 
age.  After  bestowing  upon  his  son  such  advantages  for  instruction 
as  the  schools  of  his  native  town  afforded,  he  placed  him  at  an  early 
age  as  a  clerk  in  the  store  of  a  kinsman  who  resided  in  Ridgefield, 
to  learn  the  mercantile  business.  Here  he  remained  for  several 
years,  when  he  removed  to  Hartford,  where  he  was  also  engaged  for 
some  time  in  a  similar  capacity.  About  the  year  1815,  he  embarked 
in  the  bookselling  business,  an  occupation,  doubtless,  which  gave  a 
direction  to  the  literary  character  which  he  has  since  acquired. 

In  1824,  in  consequence  of  ill  health,  Mr.  GOODRICH  visited 
Europe,  travelling  over  England,  France,  Germany,  and  Holland, 
and  directing  his  attention  particularly  to  their  various  institutions 
for  primary  education.  He  returned  to  Hartford  the  following  year, 
where  he  remained,  engaged  in  the  business  of  a  publisher,  till  the 
beginning  of  1827,  when  he  removed  to  Boston,  in  order  the  better 
to  prosecute  his  designs  as  an  author  of  books  for  the  instruction  and 
amusement  of  the  young.  Since  that  period,  he  has  written  and 
published  more  than  twenty  volumes  under  the  well-known  signature 
of  "  PETER  PARLEY,"  which  have  passed  through  many  editions  in 
this  country,  and  in  England,  and  have  been  translated  into  a  number 
of  foreign  languages.  In  1828,  Mr.  GOODRICH  commenced  the 
publication  of  "  The  Token,"  an  Annual,  which  has  met  with  much 
popular  approbation.  He  was  its  Editor  for  fourteen  years,  and 
contributed  many  of  its  poems  and  sketches.  In  1837,  he  published 
"  The  Outcast,  and  other  Poems,"  and  in  1841,  "  Sketches  from  a 
Student's  Window,"  a  collection  of  poems  and  prose  writings.  The 
greater  part  of  the  articles  of  both  volumes  had  originally  appeared 
in  "  The  Token,"  and  other  periodicals. 

As  a  publisher,  Mr.  GOODRICH  has  been  distinguished  by  a  liberal 
and  enterprising  spirit ;  and  the  literature  of  the  country  is  indebted 
to  him  for  improvements  in  the  style  of  publication.  His  prose 
writings  have  possessed  a  peculiar  charm  for  the  young  mind  ;  and 
his  poetry  presents  some  pleasing  specimens  of  tasteful  imagery,  and 
easy  versification. 


214 


POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 


MEMORY   OF   HOME.* 

My  native  hills  are  far  away, 

Beneath  a  soft  and  sunny  sky ; 
Green  as  the  sea,  the  forests  play, 

Mid  the  fresh  winds  that  sweep  them  by. 
Thou  knowest  perchance  the  deep  ravine 

Where  pours  the  broad  Potomac's  tide, 
Where,  beetling  rocks  and  crags  between, 

He  goes  to  meet  his  willing  bride  ; 
Where,  curtained  round  with  cliff  and  cave, 

The  Shenandoah  yields  its  breast, 
And  blushing  gives  its  gladdened  wave, 

To  make  the  bounding  billows  blest. 
There  by  the  magic  hills  and  streams, 

My  infancy  was  lulled  to  rest, 
There  was  the  cradle  of  my  dreams, 

In  childhood's  morning  bright  and  blest. 

I  lored  those  hills,  I  loved  the  flowers 

That  dashed  with  gems  their  sunny  swells, 
And  oft  I  fondly  dreamed  for  hours, 

By  streams  within  those  mountain  dells. 
I  loved  the  wood — each  tree  and  leaf, 

In  breeze  Or  blast,  to  me  was  fair, 
And  if  my  heart  was  touched  with  grief, 

I  always  found  a  solace  there. 
My  parents  slumbered  in  the  tomb ; 

But  thrilling  thoughts  of  them  came  back, 
And  seemed  within  my  breast  to  bloom, 

As  lone  I  ranged  the  forest  track. 
The  wild  flowers  rose  beneath  my  feet, 

Like  memories  dear  of  those  who  slept, 
And  all  around  to  me  was  sweet, 

Although,  perchance,  I  sometimes  wept. 
I  wept,  but  not,  oh  not  in  sadness, 

And  those  bright  tears  I  would  not  smother 
For  less  they  flowed  in  grief  than  gladness, 

So  blest  the  memory  of  my  mother. 

*  From  "  The  Outcast." 


SAMUEL     GRISWOLD     GOODRICH. 

•-^-^-V_^_X-N_^_^v^'-^-v_x-x^^ 

And  she  was  linked,  I  know  not  why, 

With  leaves  and  flowers,  and  landscapes  fair, 

And  all  beneath  the  bending  sky, 
As  if  she  still  were  with  me  there. 


Nature  became  my  idol ;  wood, 

Wave,  wilderness,  I  loved  them  all ; 
I  loved  the  forest-solitude, 

That  brooded  o'er  the  waterfall. 
I  loved  the  autumn  winds  that  flew 

Between  the  swaying  boughs  at  night, 
And  from  their  whispers  fondly  drew 

Wild-woven  dreams  of  lone  delight. 


Joyous  I  went  upon  my  way ; 

Yet  e'er  the  sun-rise  kissed  my  cheek, 
I  stood  upon  the  forehead  gray 

Of  some  lone  mountain's  'dizzy  peak.  . 
A  ruddy  light  was  on  the  hill, 

But  shadows  in  the  valley  slept ; 
A  white  mist  rested  o'er  the  rill, 

And  shivering  leaves  with  tear-drops  wept. 
The  sun  came  up,  and  nature  woke, 

As  from  a  deep  and  sweet  repose  ; 
From  every  bush  soft  music  broke, 

And  blue  wreaths  from  each  chimney  rose. 
From  the  green  vale  that  lay  below 

Full  many  a  carol  met  my  ear ; 
The  boy  that  drove  the  teeming  cow, 

And  sung  or  whistled  in  his  cheer ; 
The  dog  that  by  his  master's  side 

Made  the  lone  copse  with  echoes  ring ; 
The  mill,  that,  whirling  in  the  tide, 

Seemed  with  a  droning  voice  to  sing ; 
The  lowing  herd,  the  bleating  flock, 

And  many  a  far-off  murmuring  wheel ; 
Each  sent  its  music  up  the  rock, 

And  woke  my  bosom's  echoing  peal. 


216 


POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 


THE   CONFESSION.* 

Stranger  !  a  murderer  stands  before  thee  ! 

To  tell  the  guilty  tale  were  vain : 
It  is  enough — the  curse  is  o'er  me — 

And  I  am  but  a  wandering  CAIN. 
What  boots  it  that  the  world  bestows, 

For  deeds  of  death  its  honors  dear  ? 
The  blood  that  from  the  duel  flows, 

Will  cry  to  HEAVEN,  and  HEAVEN  will  hear ! 
"  Thou  shalt  not  kill ! "     T  was  deeply  traced 

In  living  stone,  and  thunder-sealed ; 
It  cannot  be  by  man  effaced, 

Or  fashion's  impious  act  repealed. 
And  though  we  seek  with  thin  deceit, 

To  blind  JEHOVAH'S  piercing  gaze, 
Call  murder,  honor, — can  we  cheat 

The  Omniscient  with  a  specious  phrase  ? 
Alas  !  't  is  adding  crime  to  crime, 

To  veil  the  blood  our  hands  have  spilt, 
And  seek  by  words  of  softening  chime 

To  lend  blest  virtue's  charm  to  guilt. 
No  !  No  !   in  vain  the  world  may  give 

The  fearful  deed  a  gentle  name ; 
I  slew  my  friend ;  and  now  I  live 

To  feel  perdition's  glowing  flame. 
His  missile  cut  the  upward  air — 

Mine,  winged  with  murder  won  its  way, 
Straight  to  his  manly  bosom — there 

He  fell,  unconscious  as  the  clay ! 
One  thrill  of  triumph  through  me  swept, — 

But,  as  I  gazed  upon  his  brow, 
A  chilling  horror  o'er  me  crept, — 

And  I  am  what  thou  seest  now ! 

I  wandered  forth,  I  wandered  far ; 

In  dank  lagoons  where  reptiles  fed ; 
Where  oozy  swamps,  with  shuddering  jar 

Seemed  shrinking  from  my  maniac  tread, 

*  From  "  The  Outcast." 


SAMUEL     GRISWOLD     GOODRICH. 

^s-^s^^^^~^^^~s~^s-^^^^~**^^^ 

I  strode  at  noon,  I  slept  at  night, — 

The  scaly  lizard  fled  in  fear, 
The  stealing  serpent  shunned  my  sight, 

But  shook  his  warning  rattle  near. 
I  climbed  the  cliff  where  thunders  spoke — 

I  wooed  the  lightning,  but  the  flash 
Refused  to  strike  me — yet  its  stroke 

Rent  at  my  feet  the  quivering  ash ! 
I  met  a  whirlwind  in  its  wrath ; 

Like  a  swift  chariot-wheel  it  crashed 
The  reeling  forest  in  its  path- — 

I  stood  unscathed  where  oaks  were  dashed 
To  earth !     I  sought  the  mountain  ;  there 

The  bear  fled  howling  to  his  den  ; 
The  wolf  yarred  at  me,  and  his  glare 

Lit  the  dark  hollows  of  the  glen. 
The  startled  wild  horse  from  me  flew, 

Rending  the  rock  with  clattering  heel : 
The  panther  shrunk  before  my  view, 

But  woke  the  wood  with  wailing  peal. 
Within  a  cave  I  made  my  bed, — 

Red  adders  came  like  spectres  gay ; 
In  wild  festoons  above  my  head, 

They  mocked  my  slumbers  with  their  play. 
I  saw  them  in  their  horrid  dies, 

Lighting  the  chasms  dim  and  deep — 
Like  writhing  yeast  their  gleamy  eyes, 

All  bubbling  o'er  the  braided  heap. 
My  mind  grew  dark — my  gloomy  breast 

Was  like  some  grisly  glen  at  night, 
Where  vultures  startled  from  their  rest 

Steal  glimmering  to  the  cheated  sight ; 
Where  panthers  howling  in  their  caves 

Waken  the  ear  with  accents  fell ; 
Where  sighing  woods  and  gurgling  waves 

Bespeak  some  night-mare  of  the  dell. 
I  wandered  on,  and  years  have  flown 
Since  1  have  dwelt  a  hermit  here ; 
My  food,  wild  fruits — my  bed,  a  stone — 
My  drink,  yon  rippling  waters  clear. 


217 


218 


POETS    OF    CONNECTICUT. 


THE   LEAF. 

It  came  with  Spring's  soft  sun  and  showers, 
Mid  bursting  buds  and  blushing  flowers  ; 
It  flourished  on  the  same  light  stem, 
It  drank  the  same  clear  dews  with  them. 
The  crimson  tints  of  summer  morn, 
That  gilded  one,  did  each  adorn : 
The  breeze  that  whispered  light  and  brief 
To  bud  or  blossom,  kissed  the  leaf; 
When  o'er  the  leaf  the  tempest  flew, 
The  bud  and  blossom  trembled  too. 

But  its  companions  passed  away, 
And  left  the  leaf  to  lone  decay. 
The  gentle  gales  of  Spring  went  by, 
The  fruits  and  flowers  of  summer  die. 
The  autumn  winds  swept  o'er  the  hill, 
And  Winter's  breath  came  cold  and  chill. 
The  leaf  now  yielded  to  the  blast, 
And  on  the  rushing  stream  was  cast. 
Far,  far  it  glided  to  the  sea, 
And  whirled  and  eddied  wearily, 
Till  suddenly  it  sank  to  rest, 
And  slumbered  in  the  ocean's  breast. 

Thus  life  begins — its  morning  hours, 

Bright  as  the  birthday  of  the  flowers ; 

Thus  passes  like  the  leaves  away, 

As  withered  and  as  lost  as  they. 

Beneath  the  parent  roof  wre  meet 

In  joyous  groups,  and  gaily  greet 

The  golden  beams  of  love  and  light, 

That  dawn  upon  the  youthful  sight. 

But  soon  we  part,  and,  one  by  one, 

Like  leaves  and  flowers,  the  group  is  gone. 

One  gentle  spirit  seeks  the  tomb, 

His  brow  yet  fresh  with  childhood's  bloom. 

Another  treads  the  paths  of  fame, 

And  barters  peace  to  win  a  name. 

Another  still,  tempts  fortune's  wave, 

And,  seeking  wealth,  secures  a  grave. 


SAMUEL     GRISWOLD     GOODRICH.  219 

The  last,  grasps  yet  the  brittle  thread, 
Though  friends  are  gone  and  joy  is  dead 
Still  dares  the  dark  and  fretful  tide, 
And  clutches  at  its  power  and  pride  ; 
Till  suddenly  the  waters  sever, 
And,  like  the  leaf,  he  sinks  for  ever. 


LAKE    SUPERIOR. 

"  Father  of  lakes  ! "  thy  waters  bend 
Beyond  the  eagle's  utmost  view, 

When,  throned  in  heaven,  he  sees  thee  send 
Back  to  the  sky  its  world  of  blue. 

Boundless  and  deep,  the  forests  weave 
Their  twilight  shade  thy  borders  o'er, 

And  threatening  cliffs,  like  giants,  heave 
Their  rugged  forms  along  thy  shore. 

Pale  Silence,  mid  thy  hollow  caves, 
With  listening  ear,  in  sadness  broods  ; 

Or  startled  Echo,  o'er  thy  waves, 

Sends  the  hoarse  wolf-notes  of  thy  woods. 

Nor  can  the  light  canoes,  that  glide 
Across  thy  breast  like  things  of  air, 

Chase  from  thy  lone  and  level  tide 

The  spell  of  stillness  deepening  there. 

Yet  round  this  waste  of  wood  and  wave, 
Unheard,  unseen,  a  spirit  lives, 

That,  breathing  o'er  each  rock  and  cave, 
To  all  a  wild,  strange  aspect  gives. 

The  thunder-riven  oak,  that  flings 
Its  grisly  arms  athwart  the  sky, 

A  sudden,  startling  image  brings 
To  the  lone  traveller's  kindled  eye. 

The  gnarled  and  braided  boughs,  that  show 
Their  dim  forms  in  the  forest  shade, 

Like  wrestling  serpents  seem,  and  throw 
Fantastic  horrors  through  the  glade. 


220  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

The  very  echoes  round  this  shore 

Have  caught  a  strange  and  gibbering  tone ; 

For  they  have  told  the  war-whoop  o'er, 
Till  the  wild  chorus  is  their  own. 

Wave  of  the  wilderness,  adieu  ! 

Adieu,  ye  rocks,  ye  wilds,  ye  woods ! 
Roll  on,  thou  element  of  blue, 

And  fill  these  awful  solitudes  ! 

Thou  hast  no  tale  to  tell  of  man  ; 

GOD  is  thy  theme.     Ye  sounding  caves, 
Whisper  of  Him,  whose  mighty  plan 

Deems  as  a  bubble  all  your  waves ! 


TO   ELLEN. 

The  sportive  sylphs  that  course  the  air, 
Unseen  on  wings  that  twilight  weaves, 

Around  the  opening  rose  repair, 

And  breathe  sweet  incense  o'er  its  leaves. 

With  sparkling  cups  of  bubbles  made, 
They  catch  the  ruddy  beams  of  day  ; 

And  steal  the  rainbow's  sweetest  shade, 
Their  blushing  favorite  to  array. 

They  gather  gems  with  sunbeams  bright, 
From  floating  clouds  and  falling  showers  ; 

They  rob  Aurora's  locks  of  light 

To  grace  their  own  fair  queen  of  flowers. 

Thus,  thus  adorned,  the  speaking  rose 

Becomes  a  token  fit  to  tell 
Of  things  that  words  can  ne'er  disclose, 

And  nought  but  this  reveal  so  well. 

Then  take  my  flower ;  and  let  its  leaves 
Beside  thy  heart  be  cherished  near ; 

While  that  confiding  heart  receives 
The  thought  it  whispers  to  thine  ear. 


FITZ-GREEN     HALLECK.  221 


FITZ-GREEN    HALLECK. 

[Born  1795.] 

THIS  well-known  author  was  born  at  Guilford,  in  August,  1795. 
His  youth  was  passed  in  his  native  town,  until,  in  the  eighteenth 
year  of  his  age,  he  removed  to  the  city  of  New  York,  which  has 
since  been  his  place  of  residence.  At  an  early  age  he  evinced  a 
taste  for  poetry  and  talent  for  poetical  composition ;  but  he  first 
attracted  public  attention  by  a  series  of  effusions  published  in  the 
New  York  Evening  Post,  under  the  signatures  of  "  Croaker,"  and 
"  Croaker  &  Co."  These  articles  were  generally  of  a  playful  char 
acter,  and  at  times  were  marked  with  great  humor,  and  pungent 
satire.  The  public  curiosity  was  much  excited  in  regard  to  their 
origin,  and  for  some  time  their  authors  were  unknown.  Mr.  HALLECK 
was  assisted  in  their  composition  by  his  friend,  the  late  Dr.  DRAKE, 
the  author  of"  The  Culprit  Fay,"  and  a  poet  of  great  brilliancy. 

In  1819,  Mr.  HALLECK  published  "Fanny,"  a  humorous  satire. 
It  is  his  longest  poem,  containing  from  twelve  to  fifteen  hundred 
lines,  and  was  composed  in  three  weeks.  Despite  its  local  character, 
which  is  calculated  to  render  it  somewhat  unintelligible  to  distant 
readers,  its  merit  has  rendered  it  exceedingly  popular,  and  it  has 
been  twice  re-printed  in  Great  Britain.  Soon  after  the  publication 
of  this  poem,  our  author  visited  England,  and  upon  his  return  resolved 
to  write  a  series  of  poems  illustrative  of  many  of  the  most  interesting 
scenes  and  localities  which  had  engaged  his  attention  during  his 
foreign  travels.  He  has  never  completed  his  design,  although  two 
or  three  noble  effusions  have  been  the  result. 

In  1827,  a  small  volume  appeared  in  New  York,  entitled  "Alnwick 
Castle,  and  other  Poems."  In  1836,  a  volume  of  the  same  title,  but 
including  a  greater  variety  of  articles,  was  published  by  GEORGE 
DEARBORN.  In  1839,  "  Fanny  and  other  Poems"  was  issued  by  the 
HARPERS,  and,  in  1842,  another  edition  of  the  same  appeared  from 
the  same  press.  These  volumes  comprise  all  the  poems  which  our 
author  chooses  to  acknowledge. 

The  name  of  Mr.  HALLEC^  is  as  widely  known  as  that  of  any 
American  writer : 

"  his  words  are  driven, 
Like  flower-seeds  by  the  far  winds  sown  !  " 

For  many  years  he  has  been  engaged  as  a  confidential  agent  of  that 


222 


POETS    OF    CONNECTICUT. 


princely  merchant,  JOHN  JACOB  ASTOR,  and  his  harp  has  long  hung 
neglected — and  mute,  as  that  on  "  Tara's  walls,"  which  once  "  the 
soul  of  music  shed."  His  humorous  poems  are  distinguished  by  a 
singularly  felicitous  versification,  and  great  playfulness  of  fancy; 
and  he  possesses  a  power  in  these  which  many  have  in  vain  before 
him  attempted — and  in  vain  endeavored  to  imitate — that  of  turning 
suddenly  from  a  strain  of  great  seeming  seriousness,  and  surprising 
the  reader  by  a  masterly  stroke  of  inimitable  drollery,  without  in  any 
manner  offending  the  taste  of  the  most  fastidious  reader.  "Alnwick 
Castle"  and  "Fanny"  both  furnish  proofs  of  this  character.  His 
serious  articles  are  characterized  by  vigor  of  thought  and  great 
strength  of  expression ;  while  his  lighter  lays  present  us  with  graceful 
verse,  abounding  with  tender  feeling  and  exquisite  imagery. 

We  heartily  concur  in  the  censure  pronounced  by  an  able  critic, 
who  has  said  that  Mr.  HALLECK'S  chief  fault  is,  that  he  writes  so 
little.  If  the  universal  voice  can  have  influence,  the  series  of 
sketches  of  which  "  Alnwick  Castle  "  and  "  Burns  "  were  the  begin 
ning,  will  not  long  remain  only  begun. 


BURNS. 

To  a  Rose,  brought  from  near  Alloway  Kirk,  in  Ayrshire,  in  the 
Autumn  of  1822. 

Wild  rose  of  Alloway,  my  thanks  ! 

Thou  mind'st  me  of  that  autumn  noon, 
When  first  we  met  upon  "  the  banks 

And  braes  o'  bonny  Doon." 

Like,  thine,  beneath  the  thorn-tree's  bough, 
My  sunny  hour  was  glad  and  brief; 

We  Ve  crossed  the  winter  sea,  and  thou 
Art  withered — flower  and  leaf. 

And  will  not  thy  death-doom  be  mine — 
The  doom  of  all  things  wrought  of  clay  ? 

And  withered  my  life's  leaf  like  thine, 
WTild  rose  of  Alloway  1 

Not  so  his  memory,  for  whose  sake 
My  bosom  bore  thee  far  and  long — 

His,  who  an  humbler  flower  could  make 
Immortal  as  his  song ! 


FITZ-GREEN     HALLECK.  223 

The  memory  of  BURNS — a  name 

That  calls,  when  brimmed  her  festal  cup, 

A  nation's  glory,  and  her  shame, 
In  silent  sadness  up. 

A  nation's  glory — be  the  rest 

Forgot — she  's  canonized  his  mind  ; 
And  it  is  joy  to  speak  the  best 

We  may  of  human  kind. 

I  've  stood  beside  the  cottage  bed 

S 

Where  the  bard-peasant  first  drew  breath, 
A  straw-thatched  roof  above  his  head, 
A  straw-wrought  couch  beneath. 

And  I  have  stood  beside  the  pile, 

His  monument — that  tells  to  heaven 
The  homage  of  earth's  proudest  isle 

To  that  bard-peasant  given. 

Bid  thy  thoughts  hover  o'er  that  spot, 

Boy-minstrel,  in  thy  dreaming  hour  ; 
And  know,  however  low  his  lot, 

A  poet's  pride  and  power : 

The  pride  that  lifted  BURNS  from  earth, 

The  power  that  gave  a  child  of  song 
Ascendancy  o'er  rank  and  birth, 

The  rich,  the  brave,  the  strong ; 

And  if  despondency  weigh  down 

Thy  spirit's  fluttering  pinions  then, 
Despair — thy  name  is  written  on 

The  roll  of  common  men. 

There  have  been  loftier  themes  than  his, 

And  longer  scrolls,  and  louder  lyres, 
And  lays  lit  up  with  Poesy's 

Purer  and  holier  fires. 

Yet  read  the  names  that  know  not  death  ; 

Few  nobler  ones  than  BURNS  are  there  ; 
And  few  have  won  a  greener  wreath 

Than  that  which  binds  his  hair. 


POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

His  is  that  language  of  the  heart, 

In  which  the  answering  heart  would  speak ; 
Thought,  word,  that  bids  the  warm  tear  start, 

Or  the  smile  light  the  cheek ; 

And  his,  that  music,  to  whose  tone 

The  common  pulse  of  man  keeps  time, 

In  cot  or  castle's  mirth  or  moan, 
In  cold  or  sunny  clime. 

And  who  hath  heard  his  song,  nor  knelt 
Before  its  spell  with  willing  knee — 

And  listened,  and  believed,  and  felt 
The  poet's  mastery, 

O'er  the  mind's  sea,  in  calm  and  storm, 
O'er  the  heart's  sunshine  and  its  showers, 

O'er  Passion's  moments,  bright  and  warm, 
O'er  Reason's  dark,  cold  hours ; 

On  fields  where  brave  men  "  die  or  do," 
In  halls  where  rings  the  banquet's  mirth, 

Where  mourners  weep,  where  lovers  woo, 
From  throne  to  cottage  hearth  ? 

What  sweet  tears  dim  the  eyes  unshed, 
What  wild  vows  falter  on  the  tongue, 

Wrhen  "  Scots  wha  hae  wi'  WALLACE  bled," 
Or  "  Auld  lang  Syne/'  is  sung ! 

Pure  hopes,  that  lift  the  soul  above, 

Come  with  his  Cotter's  hymn  of  praise  ; 

And  dreams  of  youth,  and  truth,  and  love, 
With  "  Logan's  "  banks  and  braes. 

And  when  he  breathes  his  master-lay 
Of  Alloway's  witch-haunted  wall, 

All  passions  in  our  frames  of  clay 
Come  thronging  at  his  call. 

Imagination's  world  of  air, 

And  our  own  world,  its  gloom  and  glee, 
Wit,  pathos,  poetry,  are  there, 

And  death's  sublimity. 


FITZ-GREEN     HALLECK. 

-<•^-^-X_^-^-^•-X^-•^-^v-'-^-^•X^>_^_^^ 

And  BURNS — though  brief  the  race  he  ran, 
Though  rough  and  dark  the  path  he  trod, 

Lived — died — in  form  and  soul  a  Man, 
The  image  of  his  GOD. 

Through  care,  and  pain,  and  want,  and  woe, 
With  wounds  that  only  death  could  heal, 

Tortures — the  poor  alone  can  know, 
The  proud  alone  can  feel ; 

He  kept  his  honesty  and  truth, 
His  independent  tongue  and  pen ; 

And  moved,  in  manhood  as  in  youth, 
Pride  of  his  fellow-men. 

Strong  sense,  deep  feelings,  passions  strong, 

A  hate  of  tyrant  and  of  knave, 
A  love  of  right,  a  scorn  of  wrong, 

Of  coward,  and  of  slave  ; 

A  kind,  true  heart,  a  spirit  high, 

That  could  not  fear,  and  would  not  bow — 
Were  written  in  his  manly  eye, 

And  on  his  manly  brow. 

Praise  to  the  bard !     His  words  are  driven, 
Like  flower-seeds  by  the  far  winds  sown, 

Where'er,  beneath  the  sky  of  heaven, 
The  birds  of  fame  have  flown. 

Praise  to  the  man !     A  nation  stood 
Beside  his  coffin  with  wet  eyes, 

Her  brave,  her  beautiful,  her  good, 
As  when  a  loved  one  dies. 

And  still,  as  on  his  funeral  day, 

Men  stand  his  cold  earth-couch  around, 

With  the  mute  homage  that  we  pay 
To  consecrated  ground. 

And  consecrated  ground  it  is, 

The  last,  the  hallowed  home  of  one 

Who  lives  upon  all  memories, 
Though  with  the  buried  gone. 


225 


226  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Such  graves  as  his  are  pilgrim-shrines, 
Shrines  to  no  code  or  creed  confined, — 

The  Delphian  vales,  the  Palestines, 
The  Meccas  of  the  mind. 

Sages,  with  Wisdom's  garland  wreathed, 
Crowned  kings,  and  mitred  priests  of  power, 

And  warriors,  with  their  bright  swords  sheathed, 
The  mightiest  of  the  hour  ; 

And  lowlier  names,  whose  humble  home 
Is  lit  by  Fortune's  dimmer  star, — 

Are  there — o'er  wave  and  mountain  come, 
From  countries  near  and  far ; 

Pilgrims,  whose  wandering  feet  have  pressed 
The  Switzer's  snow,  the  Arab's  sand, 

Or  trod  the  piled  leaves  of  the  West, 
My  own  green  forest-land. 

All  ask  the  cottage  of  his  birth, 

Gaze  on  the  scenes  he  loved  and  sung, 

And  gather  feelings  not  of  earth 
His  fields  and  streams  among. 

They  linger  by  the  Boon's  low  trees, 
And  pastoral  Nith,  and  wooded  Ayr, 

And  round  thy  sepulchres,  Dumfries  ! 
The  poet's  tomb  is  there. 

But  what  to  them  the  sculptor's  art, 

His  funeral  columns,  wreaths,  and  urns  ? 

Wear  they  not,  graven  on  the  heart, 
The  name  of  ROBERT  BURNS  ? 


CONNECTICUT. 

And  still  her  gray  rocks  tower  above  the  sea 
That  crouches  at  their  feet,  a  conquered  wave ; 

'T  is  a  rough  land  of  earth,  and  stone,  and  tree, 
Where  breathes  no  castled  lord  or  cabined  slave  ; 

Where  thoughts,  and  tongues,  and  hands,  are  bold  and  free, 
And  friends  will  find  a  welcome,  foes  a  grave ; 


FITZ-GREEN     HALLECK.  227 

And  where  none  kneel,  save  when  to  HEAVEN  they  pray, 
Nor  even  then,  unless  in  their  own  way. 

Theirs  is  a  pure  republic,  wild,  yet  strong, 
A  "  fierce  democracie,"  where  all  are  true 

To  what  themselves  have  voted — right  or  wrong — 
And  to  their  laws,  denominated  blue  ; 

(If  red,  they  might  to  DRACO'S  code  belong ;) 
A  vestal  state,  which  power  could  not  subdue, 

Nor  promise  win — like  her  own  eagle's  nest, 

Sacred — the  San  Marino  of  the  west. 

A  justice  of  the  peace,  for  the  time  being, 

They  bow  to,  but  may  turn  him  out  next  year ; 

They  reverence  their  priest,  but  disagreeing 
In  price  or  creed,  dismiss  him  without  fear ; 

They  have  a  natural  talent  for  foreseeing 

And  knowing  all  things ; — and  should  PARK  appear 

From  his  long  tour  in  Africa,  to  show 

The  Niger's  source,  they  'd  meet  him  with — We  know. 

They  love  their  land,  because  it  is  their  own, 
And  scorn  to  give  aught  other  reason  why ; 

Would  shake  hands  with  a  king  upon  his  throne, 
And  think  it  kindness  to  his  majesty ; 

A  stubborn  race,  fearing  and  flattering  none. 
Such  are  they  nurtured,  such  they  live  and  die  : 

All — but  a  few  apostates,  who  are  meddling 

With  merchandise,  pounds,  shillings,  pence,  and  peddling ; 

Or,  wandering  through  the  southern  countries,  teaching 
The  ABC  from  WEBSTER'S  spelling-book  ; 

Gallant  and  godly,  making  love  and  preaching, 

And  gaining,  by  what  they  call  "  hook  and  crook," 

And  what  the  moralists  call  overreaching, 
A  decent  living.         ***** 


But  these  are  but  their  outcasts.     View  them  near 
At  home,  where  all  their  worth  and  pride  is  placed ; 

And  there  their  hospitable  fires  burn  clear, 

And  there  the  lowliest  farm-house  hearth  is  graced 


228 


POETS    OF    CONNECTICUT. 


With  manly  hearts,  in  piety  sincere, 

Faithful  in  love,  in  honor  stern  and  chaste, 
In  friendship  warm  and  true,  in  danger  brave, 
Beloved  in  life,  and  sainted  in  the  grave. 

And  minds  have  there  been  nurtured,  whose  control 

Is  felt  even  in  their  nation's  destiny ; 
Men  who  swayed  senates  with  a  statesman's  soul, 

And  looked  on  armies  with  a  leader's  eye  ; 
Names  that  adorn  and  dignify  the  scroll 

Whose  leaves  contain  their  country's  history, 
And  tales  of  love  and  war  :  listen  to  one, 
Of  the  Green-Mountaineer — the  STARK  of  Bennington. 

When  on  that  field  his  band  the  Hessians  fought, 
Briefly  he  spoke  before  the  fight  began — 

"  Soldiers  !  those  German  gentlemen  are  bought 
For  four  pounds  eight  and  seven  pence  per  man, 

By  England's  king — a  bargain,  as  is  thought. 

Are  we  worth  more  ?     Let 's  prove  it  now  we  can — 

For  we  must  beat  them,  boys,  ere  set  of  sun, 

OR  MARY  STARK  's  A  WIDOW  !" — It  was  done. 

Her's  are  not  Tempe's  nor  Arcadia's  Spring, 
Nor  the  long  Summer  of  Cathayan  vales, 

The  vines,  the  flowers,  the  air,  the  skies,  that  fling 
Such  wild  enchantment  o'er  Boccaccio's  tales 

Of  Florence  and  the  Arno — yet  the  wing 
Of  life's  best  angel,  Health,  is  on  her  gales 

Through  sun  and  snow — and,  in  the  Autumn  time, 

Earth  has  no  purer  and  no  lovelier  clime. 

Her  clear,  warm  heaven  at  noon — the  mist  that  shrouds 
Her  twilight  hills, — her  cool  and  starry  eves, 

The  glorious  splendor  of  her  sunset  clouds, 
The  rainbow  beauty  of  her  forest  leaves, 

Come  o'er  the  eye,  in  solitude  and  crowds, 
Where'er  his  web  of  song  her  poet  weaves ; 

And  his  mind's  brightest  vision  but  displays 

The  autumn  scenery  of  his  boyhood's  days. 


FITZ-GREEN     HALLECK. 

And  when  you  dream  of  woman,  and  her  love  ; 

Her  truth,  her  tenderness,  her  gentle  power ; 
The  maiden,  listening  in  the  moonlight  grove ; 

The  mother,  smiling  in  her  infant's  bower ; 
Forms,  features,  worshipped  while  we  breathe  or  move, 

Be,  by  some  spirit  of  your  dreaming  hour, 
Borne,  like  Loretto's  chapel,  through  the  air 
To  the  green  land  I  sing,  then  wake,  you  '11  find  them  there. 


RED    JACKET: 

A  CHIEF  OF  THE  INDIAN  TRIBES,  THE  TUSCARORAS. 

On  looking  at  his  portrait  by  WEIR. 

COOPER,  whose  name  is  with  his  country's  woven, 
First  in  her  files,  her  PIONEER  of  mind — 

A  wanderer  now  in  other  climes,  has  proven 
His  love  for  the  young  land  he  left  behind  ;* 

And  throned  her  in  the  senate  hall  of  nations, 
Robed  like  the  deluge  rainbow,  heaven-wrought, 

Magnificent  as  his  own  mind's  creations, 

And  beautiful  as  its  green  world  of  thought ; 

And  faithful  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  quoted 
As  law  authority, — it  passed  nem.  con. — 

He  writes,  that  we  are,  as  ourselves  have  voted, 
The  most  enlightened  people  ever  known. 

That  all  our  week  is  happy  as  a  Sunday 

In  Paris,  full  of  song,  and  dance,  and  laugh ; 

And  that,  from  Orleans  to  the  Bay  of  Fundy, 
There's  not  a  bailiff,  or  an  epitaph. 

And  furthermore — in  fifty  years,  or  sooner, 

We  shall  export  our  poetry  and  wine  ; 
And  our  brave  fleet — eight  frigates  and  a  schooner — 

Will  sweep  the  seas  from  Zembla  to  the  Line. 
If  he  were  with  me,  King  of  Tuscarora  ! 

Gazing,  as  I,  upon  thy  portrait  now, 
In  all  its  medalled,  fringed,  and  beaded  glory, 

Its  eye's  dark  beauty,  and  its  thoughtful  brow — 

*  "  RED  JACKET  "  appeared  originally  in  1828,  soon  after  the  publication 
of  Mr.  COOPER'S  "Notions  of  Americans." 


Its  brow,  half  martial,  and  half  diplomatic, 
Its  eye,  upsoaring  like  an  eagle's  wings  ; 

Well  might  he  boast  that  we,  the  democratic, 
Outrival  Europe,  even  in  our  kings  ! 

For  thou  wast  monarch  born.      Tradition's  pages 

Tell  not  the  planting  of  thy  parent  tree, 
But  that  the  forest  tribes  have  bent  for  ages 

To  thee,  arid  to  thy  sires,  the  subject  knee. 

Thy  name  is  princely, — if  no  poet's  magic 

Could  make  RED  JACKET  grace  an  English  rhyme, 

Though  some  one,  with  a  genius  for  the  tragic, 
Hath  introduced  it  in  a  pantomime, 

Yet  it  is  music  in  the  language  spoken 

Of  thine  own  land  ;  and  on  her  herald  roll ; 

As  bravely  fought  for,  and  as  proud  a  token 
As  COZUR  DE  LION'S,  of  a  warrior's  soul. 

Thy  garb — though  Austria's  bosom-star  would  frighten 
That  medal  pale,  as  diamonds  the  dark  mine, 

And  GEORGE  the  Fourth  wore,  at  his  court  at  Brighton, 
A  more  becoming  evening  dress  than  thine  ; 

Yet  'tis  a  brave  one,  scorning  wind  and  weather, 
And  fitted  for  thy  couch,  on  field  and  flood, 

A  ROB  ROY'S  tartan  for  the  Highland  heather, 
Or  forest  green  for  England's  ROBIN  HOOD. 

Is  strength  a  monarch's  merit,  like  a  whaler's  ? 

Thou  art  as  tall,  as  sinewy,  and  as  strong, 
As  earth's  first  kings, — the  Argo's  gallant  sailors, 

Heroes  in  history,  arid  gods  in  song. 

Is  beauty  ? — Thine  has  with  thy  youth  departed  ; 

But  the  love-legends  of  thy  manhood's  years, 
And  she  who  perished,  young  and  broken-hearted, 

Are — but  I  rhyme  for  smiles,  and  not  for  tears. 

Is  eloquence  ? — Her  spell  is  thine  that  reaches 
The  heart,  and  makes  the  wisest  head  its  sport; 

And  there's  one  rare,  strange  virtue  in  thy  speeches, 
The  secret  of  their  mastery, — they  are  short. 


FITZ-GREEN     HALLECK.  231 

The  monarch  mind,  the  mystery  of  commanding, 

The  birth-hour  gift,  the  art  Napoleon, 
Of  winning,  fettering,  moulding,  wielding,  banding 

The  hearts  of  millions  till  they  move  as  one  ; 

Thou  hast  it.      At  thy  bidding,  men  have  crowded 

The  road  to  death  as  to  a  festival ; 
And  minstrels,  at  their  sepulchres,  have  shrouded 

With  banner  folds  of  glory  the  dark  pall. 

Who  will  believe  ?    Not  I — for  in  deceiving 
Lies  the  dear  charm  of  life's  delightful  dream  ; 

I  cannot  spare  the  luxury  of  believing 

That  all  things  beautiful  are  what  they  seem; — 

Who  will  believe  that,  with  a  smile  whose  blessing 
Would,  like  the  Patriarch's,  sooth  a  dying  hour, 

With  voice  as  low,  as  gentle,  and  caressing, 
As  e'er  won  maiden's  lip  in  moonlit  bower  ; 

With  look,  like  patient  JOB'S,  eschewing  evil ; 

With  motions  graceful,  as  a  bird's  in  air  ; 
Thou  art,  in  sober  truth,  the  veriest  devil 

That  e'er  clenched  fingers  in  a  captive's  hair  ! 

That  in  thy  breast  there  springs  a  poison  fountain, 
Deadlier  than  that  where  bathes  the  Upas  tree  ; 

And  in  thy  wrath,  a  nursing  cat-o'-mountain 

Is  calm  as  her  babe's  sleep,  compared  with  thee  ! 

And  underneath  that  face,  like  summer  ocean's, 
Its  lip  as  moveless,  and  its  cheek  as  clear, 

Slumbers  a  whirlwind  of  the  heart's  emotions, 

Love,  hatred,  pride,  hope,  sorrow, — all  save  fear. 

Love — for  thy  land,  as  if  she  were  thy  daughter. 
Her  pipe  in  peace,  her  tomahawk  in  wars  ; 

Hatred — of  missionaries  and  cold  water  ; 
Pride — in  thy  rifle -trophies  and  thy  scars  ; 

Hope— that  thy  wrongs,  may  be  by  the  Great  Spirit 
Remembered  and  revenged,  when  thou  art  gone  ; 

Sorrow — that  none  are  left  thee  to  inherit 

Thy  name,  thy  fame,  thy  passions,  and  thy  throne. 


232  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 


MARCO   BOZZARIS.* 

At  midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent, 

The  Turk  was  dreaming  of  the  hour 
When  Greece,  her  knee  in  suppliance  bent, 

Should  tremble  at  his  power  ; 
In  dreams,  through  camp  and  court,  he  bore 
The  trophies  of  a  conqueror  ; 

In  dreams,  his  song  of  triumph  heard  ; 
Then  wore  his  monarch's  signet  ring, — 
Then  pressed  that  monarch's  throne, — a  king ; 
As  wild  his  thoughts,  and  gay  of  wing, 

As  Eden's  garden  bird. 

At  midnight,  in  the  forest  shades, 

BOZZARIS  ranged  his  Suliote  band — 
True  as  the  steel  of  their  tried  blades, 

Heroes  in  heart  and  hand. 
There  had  the  Persian's  thousands  stood ; 
There  had  the  glad  earth  drunk  their  blood, 

On  old  Platasa's  day  ; 
And  now  there  breathed  that  haunted  air 
The  sons  of  sires  who  conquered  there, 
With  arm  to  strike,  and  soul  to  dare, 

As  quick,  as  far  as  they. 

An  hour  passed  on — the  Turk  awoke  ; 

That  bright  dream  was  his  last ; 
He  woke — to  hear  his  sentry's  shriek, 
"  To  arms  !  they  come :  the  Greek !  the  Greek ! " 
He  woke — to  die  midst  flame  and  smoke, 
And  shout,  and  groan,  and  sabre  stroke, 

And  death-shots  falling  thick  and  fast 
As  lightnings  from  the  mountain  cloud ; 
And  heard,  with  voice  as  trumpet  loud, 

BOZZARIS  cheer  his  band  ; — 

*  He  fell  in  an  attack  upon  the  Turkish  camp  at  Laspi,  the  site  of 
the  ancient  Plataea,  August  20,  1823,  and  expired  in  the  moment  of 
victory.  His  last  words  were — "To  die  for  liberty  is  a  pleasure,  and 
not  a  pain." 


"  Strike — till  the  last  armed  foe  expires, 
Strike — for  your  altars  and  your  fires, 
Strike — for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires, 
GOD — and  your  native  land!" 

They  fought,  like  brave  men,  long  and  well ; 

They  piled  that  ground  with  Moslem  slain ; 
They  conquered — but  BOZZARIS  fell, 

Bleeding  at  every  vein. 
His  few  surviving  comrades  saw 
His  smile,  when  rang  their  proud  hurrah, 

And  the  red  field  was  won ; 
Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close 
Calmly,  as  to  a  night's  repose, 

Like  flowers  at  set  of  sun. 

Come  to  the  bridal  chamber,  Death ! 

Come  to  the  mother's,  when  she  feels, 
For  the  first  time,  her  first-born's  breath ; — 

Come  when  the  blessed  seals 
That  close  the  pestilence  are  broke, 
And  crowded  cities  wail  its  stroke  ;— 
Come  in  Consumption's  ghastly  form, 
T^he  earthquake  shock,  the  ocean  storm ; — 
Come  when  the  heart  beats  high  and  warm, 

With  banquet-song,  and  dance,  and  wine, — 
And  thou  art  terrible  :  the  tear, 
The  groan,  the  knell,  the  pall,  the  bier, 
And  all  we  know,  or  dream,  or  fear 

Of  agony,  are  thine. 

But  to  the  hero,  when  his  sword 

Has  won  the  battle  for  the  free, 
Thy  voice  sounds  like  a  prophet's  word, 
And  in  its  hollow  tones  are  heard 

The  thanks  of  millions  yet  to  be. 
Come,  when  his  task  of  fame  is  wrought— 
Come,  with  her  laurel-leaf,  blood-bought — 

Come  in  her  crowning  hour — and  then 
Thy  sunken  eye's  unearthly  light 
To  him  is  welcome  as  the  sight 

Of  sky  and  stars  to  prisoned  men : 


Thy  grasp  is  welcome  as  the  hand 
Of  brother  in  a  foreign  land ; 
Thy  summons  welcome  as  the  cry 
That  told  the  Indian  isles  were  nigh 

To  the  world-seeking  Genoese  ; 
When  the  land-wind,  from  woods  of  palm, 
And  orange  groves,  and  fields  of  balm, 

Blew  o'er  the  Haytian  seas, 

BOZZARIS  !  with  the  storied  brave 

Greece  nurtured  in  her  glory's  time, 
Rest  thee — there  is  no  prouder  grave, 

Even  in  her  own  proud  clime. 
She  wore  no  funeral  weeds  for  thee, 

Nor  bade  the  dark  hearse  wave  its  plume, 
Like  torn  branch  from  death's  leafless  tree, 
In  sorrow's  pomp  and  pageantry, 

The  heartless  luxury  of  the  tomb  : 
But  she  remembers  thee  as  one 
Long  loved,  and  for  a  season  gone  ; 
For  thee  her  poet's  lyre  is  wreathed, 
Her  marble  wrought,  her  music  breathed ; 
For  thee  she  rings  the  birth-day  bells ; 
Of  thee  her  babes'  first  lisping  tells  ; 
For  thine  her  evening  prayer  is  said 
At  palace  couch,  and  cottage  bed ; 
Her  soldier,  closing  with  the  foe, 
Gives  for  thy  sake  a  deadlier  blow ; 
His  plighted  maiden,  when  she  fears 
For  him,  the  joy  of  her  young  years, 
Thinks  of  thy  fate,  and  checks  her  tears  : 

And  she,  the  mother  of  thy  boys, 
Though  in  her  eye  and  faded  cheek 
Is  read  the  grief  she  will  not  speak, 

The  memory  of  her  buried  joys — 
And  even  she  who  gave  thee  birth, 
Will,  by  their  pilgrim-circled  hearth, 

Talk  of  thy  doom  without  a  sigh  : 
For  thou  art  Freedom's  now,  and  Fame's ; 
One  of  the  few,  the  immortal  names, 

That  were  not  born  to  die. 


FITZ-GREEN     HALLECK.  235 


LOVE. 


The  imperial  votress  passed  on 


In  maiden  meditation,  fancy  free. 

MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

Shall  I  never  see  a  bachelor  of  three-score  again  ? 

BENEDICT,  IN  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 

When  the  tree  of  love  is  budding  first, 

Ere  yet  its  leaves  are  green, 
Ere  yet,  by  shower  and  sunbeam  nurst, 

Its  infant  life  has  been  ; 
The  wild  bee's  slightest  touch  might  wring 

The  buds  from  off  the  tree, 
As  the  gentle  dip  of  the  swallow's  wing, 

Breaks  the  bubbles  on  the  sea. 

But  when  its  open  leaves  have  found 

A  home  in  the  free  air, 
Pluck  them,  and  there  remains  a  wound 

That  ever  rankles  there. 
The  blight  of  hope  and  happiness 

Is  felt  when  fond  ones  part, 
And  the  bitter  tear  that  follows  is 

The  life-blood  of  the  heart. 

When  the  flame  of  love  is  kindled  first, 

'T  is  the  fire-fly's  light  at  even  ; 
'T  is  dim  as  the  wandering  stars  that  burst 

In  the  blue  of  the  summer  heaven  ; 
A  breath  can  bid  it  burn  no  more, 

Or  if,  at  times,  its  beams 
Come  on  the  memory,  they  pass  o'er 

Like  shadows  in  our  dreams. 

But  when  that  flame  has  blazed  into 

A  being  and  a  power, 
And  smiled  in  scorn  upon  the  dew 

That  fell  in  its  first  warm  hour — 
'T  is  the  flame  that  curls  round  the  martyr's  head, 

Whose  task  is  to  destroy  ; 
'T  is  the  lamp  on  the  altars  of  the  dead, 

Whose  light  but  darkens  joy. 


236  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Then  crush,  even  in  their  hour  of  birth, 

The  infant  buds  of  love  ; 
And  tread  his  glowing  fire  to  earth, 

Ere  't  is  dark  in  clouds  above  : 
Cherish  no  more  a  cypress  tree, 

To  shade  thy  future  years  ; 
Nor  nurse  a  heart-flame  that  may  be 

Quenched  only  with  thy  tears. 


LINES 
On  the  Death  of  JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE. 

"  The  good  die  first, 

And  they  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust, 
Burn  to  the  socket."  WORDSWORTH. 

Green  be  the  turf  above  thee, 

Friend  of  my  better  days  ! 
None  knew  thee  but  to  love  thee, 

Nor  named  thee  but  to  praise. 

Tears  fell,  when  thou  wert  dying, 
From  eyes  unused  to  weep ; 

And  long,  where  thou  art  lying, 
Will  tears  the  cold  turf  steep. 

When  hearts,  whose  truth  was  proven, 
Like  thine,  are  laid  in  earth, 

There  should  a  wreath  be  woven 
To  tell  the  world  their  worth. 

And  I,  who  woke  each  morrow 
To  clasp  thy  hand  in  mine, 

Who  shared  thy  joy  and  sorrow, 
Whose  weal  and  wo  were  thine, — 

It  should  be  mine  to  braid  it 

Around  thy  faded  brow  ; 
But  I  've  in  vain  essayed  it, 

And  feel  I  cannot  now. 

While  memory  bids  me  weep  thee, 
Nor  thoughts  nor  words  are  free, 

The  grief  is  fixed  too  deeply 
That  mourns  a  man  like  thee. 


DR.     JAMES      G.     PERCIVAL. 


237 


JAMES    GATES    PERCIVAL,   M.   D. 

[Born  1795.] 

JAMES  GATES  PERCIVAL,  son  of  Dr.  JAMES  PERCIVAL,  was  born  in 
Kensington,  a  parish  in  the  town  of  Berlin,  on  the  15th  of  September, 
1795.  He  began  to  write  verse  while  very  young,  and  composed  a 
regular  poem,  of  several  hundred  lines,  in  heroic  measure,  during  the 
summer  preceding  the  commencement  of  his  collegiate  course.  At 
sixteen  years  of  age  he  entered  Yale  College,  where  he  was  distin 
guished  by  studious  habits  and  high  attainments  in  scholarship,  and 
where  he  still  continued  his  poetical  writings,  contributing  frequently 
to  the  periodicals.  In  1815,  he  was  regularly  graduated,  and  on  that 
occasion  "  Zamor,  a  Tragedy,"  which  he  had  composed  a  short  time 
before,  was  performed  by  the  students.  It  was  afterward  revised, 
and  published  in  a  volume  of  poems. 

After  leaving  college,  Mr.  PERCIVAL  devoted  himself,  for  several 
years,  to  literary  pursuits,  being  also  engaged  at  times  in  the  instruc 
tion  of  youth.  In  1820,  he  published  a  volume  of  poems  at  New 
Haven ;  and  during  the  following  year  appeared  at  Charleston, 
whither  he  had  gone  on  account  of  ill  health,  the  first  number  of 
"  Clio."  This,  like  the  following  numbers,  was  composed  partly  of 
articles  which  had  before  been  published  in  a  scattered  form.  Soon 
after  his  return  to  Connecticut,  he  published  the  second  number  of 
"  Clio,"  and  "  Prometheus,"  a  poem  of  more  than  three  thousand 
lines,  in  the  "  Spenserian  "  measure. 

In  1823,  having  pursued  the  requisite  studies,  Mr.  PERCIVAL 
received  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Medicine,  but  has  scarcely  ever 
been  engaged  in  the  practice  of  his  profession,  save  only  when 
connected  with  the  army.  During  the  same  year,  appeared  an 
edition  of  his  select  writings,  from  a  New  York  press,  which  was 
re-published  shortly  afterward,  with  a  brief  memoir,  in  London,  in 
two  duodecimo  volumes.  In  1824,  he  was  appointed  a  Professor  in 
the  Military  Academy,  at  West  Point,  but  from  ill  health  was  com 
pelled  to  resign  the  office.  He  removed  to  Boston,  where  he  was 
for  some  time  connected,  in  the  capacity  of  surgeon,  with  the 
recruiting  service  at  that  station.  W^hile  here,  he  was  a  frequent 
contributor  to  "The  United  States  Literary  Gazette,"  and  also 
edited  several  works  for  the  press.  In  1825,  he  delivered  a  poem 
before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society,  of  Yale  College,  and,  in  1827, 
published  in  New  York  the  last  number  of  "  Clio,"  and  the  last  of 
his  poetical  volumes. 


238  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

^ ^     ) 

For  the  past  few  years  Dr.  PERCIVAL  has  made  New  Haven  his  c 
principal  residence,  devoting  his  time  wholly  to  literary  and  scientific 
pursuits,  and  dwelling  as  much  apart  from  men  in  the  bustling  ; 
metropolis  as  he  could  do  in  a  desert  solitude.     He  is  a  man  of 
eminent  learning,  versed  in  the  ancient  classical  literature,  familiar 
with  the  chief  modern  languages  of  Europe,  a  proficient  in  the 
natural  sciences,    and  has  extended  his   researches  into  Oriental  \ 
philology.     He  rendered  valuable  aid  to  Dr.  WEBSTER,  in  preparing  \ 
his  Dictionary  of  the  English  language,  and  has  translated  MALTE- 
BRUN'S  Universal  G  eography,  and  various  well-known  works,  besides 
editing  several  other  publications  for  the  press.    His  poetical  writings, 
also,  have  not  been  entirely  intermitted,  as  he  has  continued  to  be  an 
occasional  contributor  to  the  periodical  literature  of  the  day.    ,In 
1835,  he  was  appointed  by  the  Governor  of  Connecticut  to  make  a 
geological  survey  of  the  state,  which  he  accomplished  with  perse 
vering  diligence,  and  in  such  a  manner  as  to  sustain  his  scientific 
reputation. 

The  poetical  celebrity  of  our  author  is  widely  extended.  The 
amount  of  his  writings  has  scarcely  been  equalled  by  any  American 
poet.  He  is  certainly  a  man  of  genius,  and  unites  to  the  vivid 
imagination  of  the  bard,  the  observing  eye  of  the  minute  naturalist.  \ 
But  his  fancy  is  under  very  little  regulation  or  restraint.  His  verse,  ) 
though  it  flows  in  a  melodious  stream,  seems  without  art ;  in  his 
descriptions,  objects  of  greater  and  less  importance  are  thrown 
together  without  proportion,  and,  notwithstanding  all  his  beauties, 
the  reader  is  overwhelmed  even  to  weariness  with  the  multitude 
of  his  images.  But  whatever  faults  severe  criticism  may  lay  to  his 
charge,  the  public  voice  has  long  since  proclaimed  Dr.  PERCIVAL 
a  true  poet,  and  has  assigned  him  a  place  with  the  few  choice 
spirits  who  grace  the  upper  walks  of  our  national  literature. 


THE    DEPARTURE.* 
He  went  amid  the  glorious  things  of  earth, 
Transient  as  glorious,  and  along  the  beach 
Of  snowy  sands,  and  rounded  pebbles,  walked, 
Watching  the  coming  of  the  evening  tide, 
Rising  with  every  ripple,  as  it  kissed 
The  gravel,  with  a  softly  gurgling  sound, 
And  still  advancing  up  the  level  shore, 
Till,  in  his  deep  abstraction,  it  flowed  round 
His  foot-prints,  and  awoke  him.     When  he  came 

*  From  "  The  Wreck,  a  Tale." 


Where  a  long  reef  stretched  out,  and,  in  its  bays 

Scooped  from  the  shelving  rocks,  received  the  sea, 

And  held  it  as  a  mirror  deep  and  dark, 

He  paused,  and  standing  then  against  the  ship, 

He  gave  his  signal.     Soon  he  saw  on  board 

The  stir  of  preparation  ;  they  let  down 

A  boat,  and  soon  her  raised  and  dipping  oars 

Flashed  in  the  setting  light,  and  round  her  prow 

The  gilt  sea  swelled  and  crinkled,  spreading  out 

In  a  wide  circle  ;  and  she  glided  on 

Smoothly,  and  with  a  whispering  sound,  that  grew 

Louder  with  every  dipping  of  the  oars, 

Until  she  neared  the  reef,  and  sent  a  surge 

Up  through  its  coves,  and  covered  them  with  foam. 

He  stepped  on  board,  and  soon  they  bore  him  back 

To  the  scarce  rocking  vessel,  where  she  lay 

Waiting  the  night  wind.     On  the  deck  he  sat, 

And  looked  to  one  point  only,  save  at  times, 

When  his  eye  glanced  around  the  mingled  scene 

Of  beauty  and  sublimity.     Meanwhile 

The  sun  had  set,  the  painted  sky  and  clouds 

Put  off  their  liveries,  the  bay  its  robe 

Of  brightness,  and  the  stars  were  thick  in  heaven. 

They  looked  upon  the  waters,  and  below 

Another  sky  swelled  out,  thick  set  with  stars, 

And  chequered  with  light  clouds,  which  from  the  north 

Came  flitting  o'er  the  dim-seen  hills,  and  shot 

Like  birds  across  the  bay.     A  distant  shade 

Dimmed  the  clear  sheet — it  darkened,  and  it  drew 

Nearer.     The  waveless  sea  was  seen  to  rise 

In  feathery  curls,  and  soon  it  met  the  ship, 

And  a  breeze  struck  her.     Quick  the  floating  sails 

Rose  up  and  drooped  again.     The  wind  came  on 

Fresher  ;  the  curls  were  waves  ;  the  sails  were  filled 

Tensely  ;  the  vessel  righted  to  her  course, 

And  ploughed  the  waters  ;  round  her  prow  the  foam 

Tossed,  and  went  back  along  her  polished  sides, 

And  floated  oflf,  bounding  the  rushing  wake, 

That  seemed  to  pour  in  torrents  from  her  stern. 

The  wind  still  freshened,  and  the  sails  were  stretched, 


240  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Till  the  yards  cracked.     She  bent  before  its  force, 

And  dipped  her  lee-side  low  beneath  the  waves. 

Straight  out  she  went  to  sea,  as  when  a  hawk 

Dalrts  on  a  dove,  and  with  a  motionless  wing 

Cuts  the  light  yielding  air.     The  mountains  dipped 

Their  dark  walls  to  the  waters,  and  the  hills 

Scarce  reared  their  green  tops  o'er  them.    One  white  point, 

On  which  a  light-house  blazed,  alone  stood  out 

In  the  broad  sea,  and  there  he  fixed  his  eye, 

Taking  his  last  look  of  his  native  shore. 

Night  wore  away,  and  still  the  wind  blew  strong, 

And  the  ship  ploughed  the  waves,  which  now  were  heaved 

In  high  and  rolling  billows.     All  were  glad, 

And  laughed  and  shouted,  as  she  darted  on, 

And  plunged  amid  the  foam,  and  tossed  it  high 

Over  the  deck,  as  when  a  strong-curbed  steed 

Flings  the  froth  from  him  in  his  eager  race. 

All  had  been  dimly  star -lit,  but  the  moon, 

Late  rising,  silvered  o'er  the  tossing  sea, 

And  lighted  up  its  foam-wreaths,  and  just  threw 

One  parting  glance  upon  the  distant  shores. 

They  met  his  eye — the  sinking  rocks  were  bright, 

And  a  clear  line  of  silver  marked  the  hills, 

Where  he  had  said  farewell.     A  sudden  tear 

Gushed,  and  his  heart  was  melted ;  but  he  soon 

Repressed  the  weakness,  and  he  calmly  watched 

The  fading  vision.     Just  as  it  retired 

Into  the  common  darkness,  on  his  eyes 

Sleep  fell,  and,  with  his  looks  turned  to  his  home, 

And  dearer  than  his  home — to  her  he  loved, 

He  closed  them,  and  his  thoughts  were  lost  in  dreams, 

Bright  and  too  glad  to  be  realities. 

Calmly  he  slept,  and  lived  on  happy  dreams, 

Till,  from  the  bosom  of  the  boundless  sea, 

Now  spreading  far  and  wide  without  a  shore, 

The  cloudless  sun  arose,  and  he  awoke. 

The  sky  was  still  serene,  and  from  the  bed 

Of  Ocean  darted  forth  the  glowing  sun, 

And  flashed  along  the  waters  ! 


DR.     JAMES     G.     PERCIVAL. 


241 


THE   RETURN.* 

'T  was  a  calm  Summer  evening — one  white  sail 
Moved  on  the  silent  waters  motionless, 
Scarce  stealing  to  the  shore.     She  watched  that  sail, 
And  followed  it  with  an  inquiring  eye, 
In  every  tack  it  took  to  catch  the  wind, 
Fancying  she  saw  the  signal.     Slowly  on 
It  came.     The  glassy  ocean  seemed  to  change 
At  distance  into  air ;  and  so  the  ship 
Seemed  moving  like  a  bird  along  the  sky. 
Sometimes  it  stood  athwart  her,  and  the  sails, 
Hung  loosely  on  the  yards,  seemed  waving  lines 
Tinged  with  the  sunset ;  and  again  it  turned 
With  prow  directed  to  her,  and  at  once 
The  broad  white  canvass  threw  its  silvery  sheet 
Full  on  her  eye,  and  glittered  in  the  west. 
Nearer  it  came,  but  slowly  ;  till  at  length 
Its  form  was  marked  distinctly,  and  she  caught 
Eagerly,  as  it  waved  upon  a  yard 
Near  the  main  topmast,  what  her  wearied  eye 
Had  sought  so  long,  and  found  not.     It  was  there ; 
The  signal,  one  white  pennon,  with  a  heart 
Stamped  in  its  centre  ;  and  at  once  her  joy 
Was  speechless  and  o'erflowing.     Fixed,  she  looked 
With  trembling  earnestness,  and  down  her  cheeks 
The  tears  ran  fast,  and  her  scarce-moving  lips 
Had  words  without  a  voice.     Thus  she  sat  long, 
Motionless  in  the  fervor  of  her  joy, 
Absorbed  in  one  emotion,  which  had  bound 
Her  form  unto  her  spirit,  and  had  made 
All  other  powers  the  ministers  to  thought. 
They  hurried  through  her  mind,  her  first  fond  love, 
Its  many  pleasures,  hours  of  early  hope 
Unclouded  by  the  fear  of  coming  ill, 
And  present  happiness,  which,  like  the  dawn 
In  the  sweet  month  of  May,  is  full  of  life, 
And  yet  serene  and  tranquil,  budding  out 
With  blossoms  of  futurity,  and  spreading 

*  From  the  same. 


242 


POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 


To  the  bright  eye  of  heaven  the  tender  flowers, 
Where  the  young  fruit  lies  hidden,  till  the  sun 
Ripens  it  to  its  full  maturity. 

These  hurried  through  her  mind,  and  with  them  came 
Long  anxious  days,  long  days  of  bitterness, 
Dark  with  the  fears  that  weigh  upon  the  heart 
Whose  love  is  young  and  tender,  when  the  chance 
Of  sea  or  battle  passes  o'er  the  head 
Of  him  who  has  the  secret  of  her  soul. 

The  sun  was  setting,  and  the  dazzling  orb 
Sunk  down  behind  the  mountains,  darting  up 
Long  rays  of  golden  light  into  the  air, 
Like  glories  round  the  sacred  countenance 
In  one  of  RAPHAEL'S  pictures.     All  was  clear 
But  one  dark  cloud,  which  rose  from  out  the  point 
Where  the  storm  gathers  after  sultry  days, 
And  launches  forth  the  lightning.     This  heaved  up 
Its  dusky  billows,  and  their  tips  were  tinged 
With  a  bright  flame,  while  all  below  was  dark 
Fearfully,  and  it  swelled  before  the  wind, 
Like  the  strong  canvass  of  a  gallant  ship 
Standing  before  the  tempest.     It  just  crowned 
The  hill  at  sunset ;  but  it  now  came  on, 
First  slowly,  till  it  rose  upon  the  air, 
Frowning,  and  threw  its  shadow  o'er  the  earth, 
And  flashed  intensely ;  then  it  seemed  to  move 
With  a  new  pace,  and  every  instant  swept 
Still  farther  on  the  sky,  and  sent  its  voice 
Deep-roaring  with  the  mingled  sound  of  winds 
Amid  the  shaken  forests,  and  the  peals 
Re-echoed  from  the  mountains.     Now  the  sea 
Darkened  beneath  its  shadow,  and  it  curled 
Without  a  breath,  as  if  it  shook  in  fear 
Before  the  coming  tempest.     She  looked  wild, 
First  on  the  cloud,  then  on  the  ship,  which  now 
Steered  to  a  cove  behind  a  sandy  point, 
On  which  the  light-house  stood,  but  yet  the  winds 
Were  light  and  baffling,  and  against  her  course  ; 
And  so  the  sails  flapped  loosely,  and  she  rocked 
Motionless  on  the  crisping  waves,  and  lay 


DR.     JAMES     G.     PERCIVAL.  243 

Waiting,  a  victim,  for  the  threatening  storm. 
Then,  as  she  looked  with  an  intenser  gaze, 
She  saw  the  sweeps  put  out,  and  every  arm 
Strained  to  the  effort,  but  their  strength  availed  not 
To  send  them  to  a  haven.     Then  her  heart 
Sank,  and  her  hopes  were  darkened,  till  her  form 
Shook  with  her  fears.     The  clouds  rolled  on  the  wind 
In  mingling  billows,  and  the  lightnings  leaped 
From  point  to  point ;  then  in  an  instant  burst 
The  thunder-crash,  and  one  undying  roar 
Filled  the  wide  air.     At  last  the  cold  wind  came, 
And  the  flag  streamed  and  quivered,  and  her  robes 
Flew  lightly  round  her.     First,  short  broken  waves 
Rose  on  the  bay  ;  their  tops  were  white  with  foam, 
And  on  they  hurried,  like  the  darting  flight 
Of  sea-mews  when  they  fly  before  the  storm. 
.  She  looked  upon  the  ship  ;  all  hands  aloft 
Took  in  the  sails,  and  scarcely  were  they  furled, 
When  the  blast  struck  her.     To  its  force  she  bowed, 
And  as  the  waves  rose  now  with  mountain-swell, 
Upward  she  sprang,  and  then  she  rushed  away 
Into  the  gulfy  waters.     Now  the  storm 
Stood  o'er  her,  and  the  rain  and  hail  came  down 
In  torrents.     All  was  darkness  ;  through  the  air 
The  gushing  clouds  streamed  onward,  and  they  took 
The  nearest  headlands  from  her  straining  sigTat. 
And  made  the  sea  invisible,  but  when 
A  flash  revealed  it,  and  she^aw  the  surge 
P  During  upon  the  rocks  below,  all  foam 
And  fury.     What  a  mingled  sound  above, 
Around  her,  and  beneath  her  !  one  long  peal 
Seemed  to  pervade  the  heavens  ;  and  one  wide  rush 
Of  winds  and  rain  poured  by  her  ;  and  the  sound 
Of  the  dashed  billows  on  the  rocks  below 
Rang  like  a  knell.     No  vessel  met  her  then  ; 
They  lit  the  signal-lamp — she  saw  it  not ; 
They  fired  the  gun,  but  in  the  louder  roar 
Of  waters  it  was  drowned,  and  they  were  left 
Alone  to  struggle  with  the  warring  waves. 
A  cry  went  forth,  "  a  ship  was  on  the  rocks," 


244  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

And  hundreds  crowded  to  the  shore  to  aid 

The  suffering  crew,  and  fires  were  kindled  there, 

But  all  availed  not — not  a  man  was  saved. 

The  storm  went  swiff ly  by ;  and  soon  the  winds 

Subsided,  and  the  western  sky  shone  out, 

And  light  glanced  o'er  the  waters.     On  a  reef, 

That  stretched  from  off  the  cliffs  along  that  shore, 

The  broken  wreck  lay  scattered  ;  and  at  last 

One  and  another  corse  came  floating  up, 

But  none  were  saved.     They  wandered  o'er  the  sands ; 

And  here  a  bale  lay  stranded ;  there  an  oar, 

And  there  a  yard.     Just  as  the  cloud  had  flown 

Over  the  zenith,  and  the  moon  shone  out 

From  its  dark  bosom,  she  went  down  the  rocks, 

And  bent  her  trembling  steps  along  the  shore. 


THE   SUN.* 

Thine  are  the  mountains,  where  they  purely  lift 
Snows  that  have  never  wasted,  in  a  sky 
Which  hath  no  stain  ;  below,  the  storm  may  drift 
Its  darkness,  and  the  thunder-gust  roar  by ; 
Aloft  in  thy  eternal  smile  they  lie, 
Dazzling,  but  cold ;  thy  farewell  glance  looks  there  ; 
And  when  below  thy  hues  of  beauty  die, 
Girt  round  them,  as  a  rosy  belt,  they  bear, 
Into  the  high,  dark  vault,  a  brow  that  still  is  fair. 

The  clouds  are  thine,  and  all  their  magic  hues 
Are  pencilled  by  thee  ;  when  thou  bendest  low, 
Or  comest  in  thy  strength,  thy  hand  imbues 
Their  waving  fold  with  such  a  perfect  glow 
Of  all  pure  tints,  the  fairy  pictures  throw 
Shame  on  the  proudest  art ;  the  tender  stain 
Hung  round  the  verge  of  heaven,  that,  as  a  bow, 
Girds  the  wide  world,  and,  in  their  blended  chain, 
All  tints  to  the  deep  gold  that  flashes  in  thy  train ! 

These  are  thy  trophies,  and  thou  bend'st  thy  arch, 
The  sign  of  triumph,  in  a  seven-fold  twine, 

*  From  the  Second  Part  of  "  Prometheus." 


DR.     JAMES     G.     PERCIVAL.  245 

Where  the  spent  storm  is  hasting  on  its  march, 
And  there  the  glories  of  thy  light  combine, 
And  form  with  perfect  curve  a  lifted  line, 
Striding  the  earth  and  air ;  man  looks,  and  tells 
How  peace  and  mercy  in  its  beauty  shine, 
And  how  the  heavenly  messenger  impels 
Her  glad  wings  on  the  path,  that  thus  in  ether  swells. 

The  ocean  is  thy  vassal ;  thou  dost  sway 
His  waves  to  thy  dominion,  and  they  go 
Where  thou,  in  heaven,  dost  guide  them  on  their  way, 
Rising  and  falling  in  eternal  flow ; 
Thou  lookest  on  the  waters,  and  they  glow ; 
They  take  them  wings,  and  spring  aloft  in  air, 
And  change  to  clouds,  and  then,  dissolving,  throw 
Their  treasures  back  to  earth,  and,  rushing,  tear 
The  mountain  and  the  vale,  as  proudly  on  they  bear. 

I,  too,  have  been  upon  thy  rolling  breast, 
Widest  of  waters  ;  I  have  seen  thee  lie 
Calm,  as  an  infant  pillowed  in  its  rest 
On  a  fond  mother's  bosom,  when  the  sky 
Not  smoother  gave  the  deep  its  azure  dye, 
Till  a  new  heaven  was  arched  and  glassed  below ; 
And  then  the  clouds,  that,  gay  in  sunset,  fly, 
Cast  on  it  such  a  stain,  it  kindled  so, 
As  in  the  cheek  of  youth  the  living  roses  grow. 

I,  too,  have  seen  thee  on  thy  surging  path, 
When  the  night-tempest  met  thee  :  thou  didst  dash 
Thy  white  arms  high  in  heaven,  as  if  in  wrath, 
Threatening  the  angry  sky ;  thy  waves  did  lash 
The  laboring  vessel,  and  with  deadening  crash 
Rush  madly  forth  to  scourge  its  groaning  sides ; 
Onward  thy  billows  came,  to  meet  and  clash 
In  a  wild  warfare,  till  the  lifted  tides 
Mingled  their  yesty  tops,  where  the  dark  storm-cloud  rides. 

In  thee,  first  light,  the  bounding  ocean  smiles, 
When  the  quick  winds  uprear  it  in  a  swell, 
That  rolls,  in  glittering  green,  around  the  isles, 
Where  ever-springing  fruits  and  blossoms  dwell ; 


POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 


246 


Oh !  with  a  joy  no  gifted  tongue  can  tell, 
I  hurry  o'er  the  waters,  when  the  sail 
Swells  tensely,  and  the  light  keel  glances  well 
Over  the  curling  billow,  and  the  gale 
Comes  off  the  spicy  groves  to  tell  its  winning  tale. 

The  soul  is  thine  :  of  old  thou  wert  the  power 
"Who  gave  the  poet  life  ;  and  I  in  thee 
Feel  my  heart  gladden  at  the  holy  hour 
When  thou  art  sinking  in  the  silent  sea ; 
Or  when  I  climb  the  height,  and  wander  free 
In  thy  meridian  glory,  for  the  air 
Sparkles  and  burns  in  thy  intensity ; 
I  feel  thy  light  within  me,  and  I  share 
In  the  full  glow  of  soul  thy  spirit  kindles  there. 


TO  THE   EAGLE. 
Bird  of  the  broad  and  sweeping  wing, 

Thy  home  is  high  in  heaven, 
Where  wide  the  storms  their  banners  fling, 

And  the  tempest  clouds  are  driven. 
Thy  throne  is  on  the  mountain  top  ; 

Thy  fields,  the  boundless  air ; 
And  hoary  peaks,  that  proudly  prop 

The  skies,  thy  dwellings  are. 

Thou  sittest  like  a  thing  of  light, 

Amid  the  noontide  blaze  : 
The  midway  sun  is  clear  and  bright ; 

It  cannot  dim  thy  gaze. 
Thy  pinions,  to  the  rushing  blast, 

O'er  the  bursting  billow  spread, 
Where  the  vessel  plunges,  hurry  past, 

Like  an  angel  of  the  dead. 

Thou  art  perched  aloft  on  the  beetling  crag, 
And  the  waves  are  white  below, 

And  on,  with  a  haste  that  cannot  lag, 
They  rush  in  an  endless  flow. 


DR.     JAMES     G,     PERCIVAL. 

,^-^-v_x-^^x^-v^^-^-O-^-^^->N_^-'^^ 

Again  thou  hast  plumed  thy  wing  for  flight, 

To  lands  beyond  the  sea, 
And  away,  like  a  spirit  wreathed  in  light, 

Thou  hurriest,  wild  and  free. 

Thou  hurriest  over  the  myriad  waves, 

And  thou  leavest  them  all  behind  ; 
Thou  sweepest  that  place  of  unknown  graves, 

Fleet  as  the  tempest-wind. 
When  the  night-storm  gathers  dim  and  dark, 

With  a  shrill  and  boding  scream 
Thou  rushest  by  the  foundering  bark, 

Quick  as  a  passing  dream. 

Lord  of  the  boundless  realm  of  air, 

In  thy  imperial  name, 
The  hearts  of  the  bold  and  ardent  dare 

The  dangerous  path  of  fame. 
Beneath  the  shade  of  thy  golden  wings, 

The  Roman  legions  bore, 
From  the  river  of  Egypt's  cloudy  springs, 

Their  pride,  to  the  polar  shore. 

For  thee  they  fought,  for  thee  they  fell, 

And  their  oath  was  on  thee  laid ; 
To  thee  the  clarions  raised  their  swell, 

And  the  dying  warrior  prayed. 
Thou  wert,  through  an  age  of  death  and  fears, 

The  image  of  pride  and*  power, 
Till  the  gathered  rage  of  a  thousand  years 

Burst  forth  in  one  awful  hour. 

And  then  a  deluge  of  wrath  it  came, 

And  the  nations  shook  with  dread ; 
And  it  swept  the  earth  till  its  fields  were  flame, 

And  piled  with  the  mingled  dead. 
Kings  were  rolled  in  the  wasteful  flood, 

With  the  low  and  crouching  slave  ; 
And  together  lay,  in  a  shroud  of  blood, 

The  coward  and  the  brave. 


247 


248  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

And  where  was  then  thy  fearless  flight  ? 

"  O'er  the  dark,  mysterious  sea, 
To  the  lands  that  caught  the  setting  light, 

The  cradle  of  Liberty. 
There,  on  the  silent  and  lonely  shore, 

For  ages,  I  watched  alone, 
And  the  world,  in  its  darkness,  asked  no  more 

Where  the  glorious  bird  had  flown. 

"  But  then  came  a  bold  and  hardy  few, 

And  they  breasted  the  unknown  wave ; 
I  caught  afar  the  wandering  crew ; 

And  I  knew  they  were  high  and  brave. 
I  wheeled  around  the  welcome  bark, 

As  it  sought  the  desolate  shore, 
And  up  to  heaven,  like  a  joyous  lark, 

My  quivering  pinions  bore. 

"  And  now  that  bold  and  hardy  few 

Are  a  nation  wide  and  strong ; 
And  danger  and  doubt  I  have  led  them  through, 

And  they  worship  me  in  song ; 
And  over  their  bright  and  glancing  arms, 

On  field,  and  lake,  and  sea, 
With  an  eye  that  fires,  and  a  spell  that  charms, 

I  guide  them  to  victory." 


NEW  ENGLAND. 

Hail  to  the  land  whereon  we  tread, 

Our  fondest  boast ; 
The  sepulchre  of  mighty  dead, 
The  truest  hearts  that  ever  bled, 
Who  sleep  on  Glory's  brightest  bed, 

A  fearless  host : 

No  slave  is  here  ;  our  unchained  feet 
Walk  freely  as  the  waves  that  beat 

Our  coast. 

Our  fathers  crossed  the  ocean's  wave 

To  seek  this  shore  ; 
They  left  behind  the  coward  slave 


DR.     JAMES     G.     PERCIVAL.  249 

To  welter  in  his  living  grave  ; — 
With  hearts  unbent,  and  spirits  brave, 

They  sternly  bore 

Such  toils  as  meaner  souls  had  quelled  ; 
But  souls  like  these,  such  toils  impelled 

To  soar. 

Hail  to  the  morn,  when  first  they  stood 

On  Bunker's  height, 

And,  fearless,  stemmed  the  invading  flood, 
And  wrote  our  dearest  rights  in  blood, 
And  mowed  in  ranks  the  hireling  brood, 

In  desperate  fight ! 
Oh,  't  was  a  proud,  exulting  day, 
For  even  our  fallen  fortunes  lay 

In  light. 

There  is  no  other  land  like  thee, 

No  dearer  shore ; 
Thou  art  the  shelter  of  the  free  ; 
The  home,  the  port  of  Liberty ; 
Thou  hast  been,  and  shalt  ever  be, 

Till  time  is  o'er. 
Ere  I  forget  to  think  upon 
My  land,  shall  mother  curse  the  son 

She  bore. 

Thou  art  the  firm,  unshaken  rock, 

On  which  we  rest ; 
And,  rising  from  thy  hardy  stock, 
Thy  sons  the  tyrant's  frown  shall  mock, 
And  Slavery's  galling  chains  unlock, 

And  free  the  oppressed  : 
All,  who  the  wreath  of  Freedom  twine 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  their  vine, 

Are  blessed. 

We  love  thy  rude  and  rocky  shore, 

And  here  we  stand  : 
Let  foreign  navies  hasten  o'er, 
And  on  our  heads  their  fury  pour, 
And  peal  their  cannon's  loudest  roar, 


250  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

•^^^^-^%_^-v-^N-X^_x-^^-^^^x-v>^^-^_^-^^-^_^-^_^ 

And  storm  our  land  ; 
They  still  shall  find  our  lives  are  given 
To  die  for  home  ; — and  leant  on  HEAVEN 

Our  hand. 


ESCAPE   FROM  WINTER. 
Oh,  had  I  the  wings  of  a  swallow,  I  'd  fly 

Where  the  roses  are  blossoming  all  the  year  long ; 
Where  the  landscape  is  always  a  feast  to  the  eye, 

And  the  bills  of  the  warblers  are  ever  in  song ; 
Oh,  then  I  would  fly  from  the  cold  and  the  snow, 

And  hie  to  the  land  of  the  orange  and  vine, 
And  carol  the  winter  away  in  the  glow 

That  rolls  o'er  the  evergreen  bowers  of  the  Line. 

Indeed,  I  should  gloomily  steal  o'er  the  deep, 

Like  the  storm-loving  petrel,  that  skims  there  alone ; 
I  would  take  me  a  dear  little  martin  to  keep 

A  sociable  flight  to  the  tropical  zone  ; 
How  cheerily,  wing  by  wing,  over  the  sea, 

We  would  fly  from  the  dark  clouds  of  winter  away ! 
And  for  ever  our  song  and  our  twitter  should  be, 

"  To  the  land  where  the  year  is  eternally  gay." 

We  would  nestle  awhile  in  the  jessamine  bowers, 

And  take  up  our  lodge  in  the  crown  of  the  palm, 
And  live,  like  the  bee,  on  its  fruit  and  its  flowers, 

That  always  are  flowing  with  honey  and  balm ; 
And  there  we  would  stay,  till  the  Winter  is  o'er, 

And  April  is  chequered  with  sunshine  and  rain  : 
Oh,  then  we  would  fly  from  that  far-distant  shore, 

Ovet  island  and  sea,  to  our  country  again. 

How  light  we  would  skim,  where  the  billows  are  rolled 
Through  clusters  that  bend  with  the  cane  and  the  lime, 

And  break  on  the  beaches  in  surges  of  gold, 

When  morning  comes  forth  in  her  loveliest  prime ! 

We  would  touch  for  a  while,  as  we  traversed  the  ocean, 
At  the  islands  that  echoed  to  WALLER  and  MOORE, 

And  winnow  our  wings,  with  an  easier  motion, 
Through  the  breath  of  the  cedar,  that  blows  from  the  shore. 


DR.     JAMES     G.     PERCIVAL.  251 

And  when  we  had  rested  our  wings,  and  had  fed 

On  the  sweetness  that  comes  from  the  juniper  groves, 
By  the  spirit  of  home  and  of  infancy  led, 

We  would  hurry  again  to  the  land  of  our  loves ; 
And  when  from  the  breast  of  the  ocean  would  spring, 

Far  off  in  the  distance,  that  dear  native  shore, 
In  the  joy  of  our  hearts  we  would  cheerily  sing, 

"  No  land  is  so  lovely,  when  Winter  is  o'er."' 


THE  CORAL  GROVE. 

Deep  in  the  wave  is  a  coral  grove, 

Where  the  purple  mullet  and  gold-fish  rove, 

Where  the  sea-flower  spreads  its  leaves  of  blue, 

That  never  are  wet  with  falling  dew, 

But  in  bright  and  changeful  beauty  shine, 

Far  down  in  the  green  and  glassy  brine. 

The  floor  is  of  sand,  like  the  mountain  drift, 
And  the  pearl  shells  spangle  the  flinty  snow ; 

From  coral  rocks  the  sea  plants  lift 
Their  boughs,  where  the  tides  and  billows  flow : 
The  water  is  calm  and  still  below, 

For  the  winds  and  the  waves  are  absent  there, 
And  the  sands  are  bright  as  the  stars  that  glow 

In  the  motionless  fields  of  upper  air : 
There,  with  its  waving  blade  of  green, 

The  sea-flag  streams  through  the  silent  water, 
And  the  crimson  leaf  of  the  dulse  is  seen 

To  blush  like  a  banner  bathed  in  slaughter : 
There,  with  a  light  and  easy  motion, 

The  fan-coral  sweeps  through  the  clear  deep  sea 
And  the  yellow  and  scarlet  tufts  of  ocean 

Are  bending  like  corn  on  the  upland  lea : 
And  life,  in  rare  and  beautiful  forms, 

Is  sporting  amid  those  bowers  of  stone, 
And  is  safe,  when  the  wrathful  spirit  of  storms 

Has  made  the  top  of  the  waves  his  own ; 
And  when  the  ship  from  his  fury  flies, 

Where  the  myriad  voices  of  Ocean  roar, 


When  the  wind-god  frowns  in  the  murky  skies, 
And  demons  are  waiting  the  wreck  on  shore  ; 

Then,  far  below,  in  the  peaceful  sea, 
The  purple  mullet  and  gold-fish  rove. 

Where  the  waters  murmur  tranquilly, 

Through  the  bending  twigs  of  the  coral  grove. 


TO   SENECA   LAKE. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake, 

The  wild  swan  spreads  his  snowy  sail, 

And  round  his  breast  the  ripples  break, 
As  down  he  bears  before  the  gale. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  waveless  stream, 

The  dipping  paddle  echoes  far, 
And  flashes  in  the  moonlight  gleam, 

And  bright  reflects  the  polar  star. 

The  waves  along  thy  pebbly  shore, 

As  blows  the  north  wind,  heave  their  foam, 

And  curl  around  the  dashing  oar, 
As  late  the  boatman  hies  him  home. 

How  sweet,  at  set  of  sun,  to  view 
Thy  golden  mirror  spreading  wide, 

And  see  the  mist  of  mantling  blue 

Float  round  the  distant  mountain's  side ! 

At  midnight  hour,  as  shines  the  moon, 
A  sheet  of  silver  spreads  below, 

And  swift  she  cuts,  at  highest  noon, 

Light  clouds,  like  wreaths  of  purest  snow. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake, 

O !  I  could  ever  sweep  the  oar, 
When  early  birds  at  morning  wake, 

And  evening  tells  us  toil  is  o'er. 


THEODORE     DWIGHT,     JR 


THEODORE    DWIGHT,   JR. 

[Born  1796.] 

OUR  principle  of  admission  has  compelled  us  to  exclude  from  our 
volume  the  name  of  the  celebrated  Dr.  DWIGHT,  author  of  "  The 
Conquest  of  Canaan,"  and  also  that  of  his  brother,  the  venerable 
THEODORE  DWIGHT,  the  principal  author  of  "  The  Echo,"  and 
"Political  Green-House,"  both  of  whom  were  natives  of  Northamp 
ton,  in  Massachusetts,  although  their  names  have  been  honorably 
associated  with  the  literary  and  political  history  of  our  Common 
wealth.  But  it  gives  us  pleasure  to  present  to  our  readers  the  name 
of  the  son  of  the  latter  named  gentleman,  THEODORE  DWIGHT,  Jr., 
who  represents  the  poetical  character  of  the  family.  He  would 
seem  to  possess  poetical  talents  by  natural  right,  being,  in  addition  to 
his  claim  by  the  paternal  line,  a  nephew,  on  the  maternal  side,  of 
RICHARD  and  JOHN  ALSOP,  notices  of  whom  have  been  already  given. 

THEODORE  DWIGHT,  Jr.,  was  born  at  Hartford,  in  March,  1796. 
He  entered  Yale  College,  at  fourteen  years  of  age,  and  was  gradu 
ated  in  1814.  Soon  afterward,  he  commenced  the  study  of  theology, 
under  the  instruction  of  his  uncle,  the  Rev.  Dr.  DWIGHT.  At  the 
expiration  of  six  months,  however,  he  was  compelled  to  relinquish 
his  studies,  in  consequence  of  ill  health,  induced  originally  by 
a  too  close  application  during  the  latter  part  of  his  collegiate  life. 
Finding  no  relief  from  medical  treatment,  in  the  year  1818  he 
made  a  voyage  to  Europe,  and,  during  his  absence,  visited  France 
and  England.  In  1820,  he  made  a  second  voyage  to  Europe. 
Passing  the  Straits  of  Gibraltar,  he  went  to  Naples,  and  from  thence 
to  Rome,  Florence,  Leghorn,  Genoa,  and  other  Italian  cities.  He 
then  passed  through  Piedmont,  to  Switzerland,  Germany,  and  the 
Netherlands,  and  from  thence  into  France.  From  France,  he 
crossed  over  to  England,  and  embarked  from  Liverpool  for  New  York. 

The  period  of  this  visit  to  Italy  was  peculiarly  interesting,  from 
the  circumstance  that  an  insurrection  had  broken  out  at  Naples, 
which  threatened  not  only  the  government  of  that  kingdom,  but  was 
formidable  even  to  that  of  his  Holiness,  the  Pope.  To  suppress  this 
disturbance,  a  large  body  of  Austrian  forces  had  been  ordered  to 
march  into  Italy  ;  and,  when  on  his  way  from  Rome  to  Florence, 
Mr.  DWIGHT  and  his  party  passed  through  this  army — a  spectacle  as 
interesting  as  it  was  rare,  especially  to  an  American.  At  the  same  i 

/  ^^-^x^^^-xj 

22 


254 


POETS    OF    CONNECTICUT. 


time,  there  were  symptoms  of  revolution  in  Genoa  and  Piedmont, 
which  caused  a  great  degree  of  excitement  among  the  inhabitants, 
at  the  idea  of  establishing  constitutional  forms  of  government. 

After  his  return  to  this  country,  Mr.  DWIGHT,  having  in  a  good 
measure  recovered  his  health,  for  some  time  assisted  his  father  in 
the  editorial  charge  of  "  The  New  York  Daily  Advertiser,"  and  at 
the  same  time  prepared  and  published  a  volume  of  his  travels  in 
Europe.  Having  relinquished  his  connection  with  the  Daily  Adver 
tiser,  he  turned  his  attention  to  the  business  of  instruction,  and 
for  several  years  taught  a  school  for  young  persons  of  both  sexes, 
in  the  city  of  Brooklyn.  Within  the  last  year,  the  school  has  been 
transferred  to  the  city  of  New  York,  where  it  is  now  established. 

Mr.  DWIGHT,  in  addition  to  the  work  above-mentioned,  has 
published  several  volumes  on  different  subjects.  Among  these  are 
"  The  Father's  Book,"  "  The  Northern  Traveller,"  "  Notes  of  a 
Traveller  through  some  of  the  Middle  and  Northern  States,"  and  a 
"  History  of  Connecticut,"  for  Harper's  Family  Library.  Of  his 
poetical  compositions  he  has  published  but  few,  and  none  under  his 
name. 


GRIEF  OF  CLARINDA. 

Translated  from  the  Italian. 

By  the  placid  banks  of  Dora, 
Where  the  purest  currents  flow, 

Still  at  eve,  mid  sweets  of  Flora, 
Music  sounds  with  voice  of  woe  : 

'T  is  CLARINDA,  deeply  wounded ; 
Hapless  love  strikes  deadly  blow. 

Wretched  maiden !  mourning  ever 

Persecuted  SIGISMOND  : 
Memory  of  the  noble  exile 

Opens  fresh  the  rankling  wound  ; 
For  oft  at  royal  board,  a  traitor, 

With  his  serpent  smile,  is  found. 

In  thy  bosom,  fair  Italia, 

Glows  a  patriotic  light, 
While  the  lingering  day  delays  us, — 

Day  of  hope,  and  new  delight : 
Three  long  centuries  we  have  waited, 

Now  it  dawns — a  glorious  sight. 


THEODORE     DWIGHT,     JR. 

>-v^-s_^_^_^-^-s_/-S-x-^->-/->^^ 

Haste,  fair  morning !  now  the  oppressor, 
Whose  base  chain  thou  still  dost  wear, 

It  will  shake  at  sight  of  danger, 
Shake  his  craven  heart  with  fear. 

Mark  thy  victim — 
For  the  hour  of  victory 's  near. 

Shouting  shame  on  chains  and  slavery, 
Brothers  rise,  and  arm  for  war ! 

All  united — now  barbarians, 
'T  is  your  retribution's  hour. 

Songs  are  bursting, 

Though  the  clouds  with  tempests  lower. 

Hail  Italia !  Hail  Italia ! 

Soon  we  '11  make  the  strangers  flee  ! 
Hark  !  Mount  Cenis  rings  Avith  music, 

Echoes  bear  it  to  the  sea. 

All  unfurl  the  same  bright  banner, 

All  one  army  rush  to  form  ; 
Pious  lips  chant  loud  hosannah, 

Brothers'  hearts  our  bosoms  warm. 


255 


ITALY. 
Italia's  founts  rise  lovely  to  the  sight, 

Her  echoes  softly  fall  upon  the  ear ; 
For  in  her  deepest  caverns  shines  a  light, 

Which  time  still  brightens  every  passing  year. 

It  is  the  lustre  which  the  land  derives 
From  the  bright  halo  of  historic  fame  ; 

A  mighty  name  at  least  in  memory  lives, 

A  quenchless  spark  that  yet  may  burst  to  flame. 

Italia's  rocks  hang  frowning  from  the  sky, 
And  'tis  a  fearful  foot  that  treads  below ; 

Ages  have  sought  to  rend  them  from  on  high, 
But  passed  them  as  the  rustling  winds  that  blow. 

The  columns  rise  upon  her  blasted  plains, 

To  mark  where  heroes  fought,  where  martyrs  bled ; 


256  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Where  love  of  freedom  drained  the  patriot's  veins, 
And  Christians'  faith  received  death's  signet  red. 

Moonlight  falls  nobly  on  their  sculptured  forms, 
And  ivied  frieze  sublimely  raised  on  high ; 

They  ask  if  patriot  blood  no  longer  warms, 
If  Christian  faith  and  hope  have  fled  for  aye. 

Oh,  who  Italia's  lovely  land  has  seen, 
And  not  exulted  to  have  trod  her  soil ! 

I  love  her  weeping  eye,  her  solemn  mien, 
More  than  the  tropics'  bright,  deceitful  smile. 


STANZAS. 

Why  should  I  doubt  my  Makers  care, 
My  life,  my  soul  that  made  ? 

Why  tremble  still  at  every  snare 
That  in  my  path  is  laid  ? 

'T  is  the  same  GOD,  for  aye  the  same, 
'T  is  the  same  powerful  hand ; 

I  've  called  upon  his  holy  name 
In  many  a  distant  land. 

I  've  seen  his  wonders  in  the  deep, 
Where  his  loud  thunder  roars  ; 

His  billows  gently  break  and  sleep, 
Upon  Italian  shores. 

Upon  Italia's  shores  his  frown, 

With  desolating  ire, 
Has  crumbled  men  and  nations  down, 

And  cities  whelmed  with  fire. 

I've  seen  the  ashes  of  their  kings 
All  scattered  by  his  breath  ; 

And  liquid  rocks,  together  poured, 
Crush  palaces  beneath. 

And  in  a  heart,  all  black  with  guilt, 
Where  once  abode  despair, 

I  've  seen  his  heavenly  mansion  built, 
I  Ve  seen  his  dwelling  there. 


THEODORE     DWIGHT,     JR. 

^-^-^^N-r-^^^^X^-^-X^XX^^^-S-^^^w^^-N^-^^X^- 

Why  should  I  doubt  my  Maker's  care, 
My  life,  my  soul  that  made  ? 

Why  tremble  still  at  every  snare 
That  in  my  path  is  laid  ? 


257 


LINES 

Addressed  impromptu  to  Mrs.  L.  H.  SIGOUKNEY,  on  her  departure  for 
England,  from  New  York,  August  1st,  1840. 

Not  with  the  gaze  of  idle  eyes 

Fair  England  you  '11  behold  ; 
But  with  the  deep,  exalted  thoughts 

You  oft  expressed  of  old, 
When  eve  was  mild,  and  flowers  were  sweet, 

Beside  my  native  stream, 
And  youth  and  wit  would  shed  their  light 

O'er  many  a  gilded  dream 
Of  the  old  eastern  world,  whose  fame 

Our  favorite  books  displayed, 
And  chief  our  fathers'  native  isle 

In  arts  and  taste  arrayed. 
That  land,  with  all  its  cots  and  towers, 

You  're  bound  to  visit  now : 
How,  at  first  step  upon  her  shores, 

Your  kindling  heart  will  glow ! 
The  scenes  of  many  a  virtuous  life, 

Which  you  've  so  well  portrayed, 
To  give  example  to  our  youth, 

Which  many  a  village  maid, 
In  scene  remote,  in  humble  bower, 

Contemplates,  where  the  bloom 
Of  fragrant  honey-suckles  pour 

My  favorite  perfume. 
Those  charming  scenes,  each  famous  spot, 

You  '11  see,  with  harp  in  tune 
To  echo  back  some  lofty  thought — 

Winds !  bear  those  echoes  soon ! 


258  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

What  though  the  Amazonian  power 

Of  modern  art  shall  raise 
Her  loud,  industrious,  deafening  roar, 

And  bid  her  furnace  blaze ! 
To  other  thoughts  and  other  scenes 

Your  hasty  steps  will  speed, 
And  soon  impress  the  classic  shores 

Of  Avon,  Tay,  and  Tweed. 
The  Leasowe's  faded  beauties  still 

Bright  in  your  memory  bloom, 
And  every  hawthorn  shade  for  you 

Retains  its  past  perfume. 
And  your  regard  for  that  far  land 

The  Pilgrims'  age  held  dear, 
Will  teach  you  things  to  understand, 

Unseen  by  many  there. 
Each  tower  that  whispers  through  its  moss 

Of  the  Reformer's  age, 
Will  hint  to  your  attentive  ear 

Its  own  historic  page. 
For  you  have  sympathies  with  men 

Who  GOD'S  own  battles  led, 
And  know  each  lovely  rustic  scene 

So  oft  with  slaughter  red. 
And  through  the  streets,  so  crowded  now, 

Your  well  taught  eye  can  trace 
The  steps  where  England's  poets  erst 

In  penury  did  pace  ; 
And  in  the  "  Corner  "  of  that  fane 

Where  hang  her  noblest  lyres, 
You  '11  feel  the  untold  thoughts  the  place 

In  kindred  souls  inspires. 
But  far  from  cities,  towers  and  thrones, 

You  '11  oft  delighted  rove, 
To  holy  haunts  of  COWPER'S  choice, 

Or  MORE  or  MILTON'S  love. 
Then,  while  you  range  the  ruined  pile, 

Or  leave  the  lowly  cot, 
Pluck  for  a  friend  some  humble  spoil, 

In  memory  of  the  spot. 


JOHN     G.    C.    BRAINARD.  259 


JOHN  GARDNER   CALKINS   BRAINARD. 

[Born  1796.    Died  1828.] 

JOHN  GARDNER  CALKINS  BRAINARD  was  a  son  of  the  Hon.  JEREMIAH 
G.  BRAINARD,  one  of  the  Judges  of  the  Superior  Court  of  Connecti 
cut,  and  was  born  at  New  London,  on  the  21st  of  October,  1796. 
He  pursued  his  preparatory  studies  under  the  direction  of  his  elder 
brother,  WILLIAM  F.  BRAINARD,  and  entered  Yale  College  at  fifteen 
years  of  age.  Here  he  was  a  universal  favorite,  and  gave  evidence 
of  the  genius  which  afterward  distinguished  him,  but  acquired  little 
celebrity  for  application  or  scholarship.  He  was  graduated  in  18J5, 
and  soon  afterward  entered  the  office  of  his  brother,  in  his  native 
town,  as  a  student  at  law7.  On  being  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1819,  he 
established  himself  in  the  city  of  Middletown,  in  the  practice  of  his 
profession.  But  it  proved  an  uncongenial  occupation,  and,  in  the 
early  part  of  the  year  1822,  he  removed  to  Hartford,  and  assumed 
the  editorial  charge  of  "  The  Connecticut  Mirror."  Through  the 
columns  of  this  periodical,  principally,  he  became  known  to  the 
public  in  a  poetical  character.  During  his  residence  in  Middletown 
he  had  devoted  a  part  of  his  time  to  literary  compositions  ;  but  he 
had  published  few  articles,  and  was,  for  the  most  part,  unknown  as 
an  author,  prior  to  his  connection  with  the  Mirror. 

In  1825,  BRAINARD  published  at  New  York  a  small  volume, 
entitled,  "  Occasional  pieces  of  Poetry,"  comprising  about  forty 
articles,  most  of  which  had  already  appeared  in  his  newspaper,  and 
had  enjoyed  a  wide-spread  popularity.  Its  motto,  from  BUNYAN,  was 
apt  and  quaint : 

"  Some  said,  '  JOHN,  print  it ; '  others  said,  '  Not  so  ; ' 
Some  said,  'It  might  do  good;'  others  said,  'No.'" 

The  volume  was  well  received  by  the  public,  and  the  friends  of  the 
author  urged  him  to  undertake  a  poem  of  such  length  as  should 
enable  him  to  concentrate  all  his  poetical  talents — a  task  which  he 
could  not  be  induced  to  attempt.  He  still  continued  his  editorial 
labors,  contributing  occasional  poems  to  the  press,  until  the  spring  of 
1827.  His  health  had  been  for  some  time  failing,  and  he  now 
resigned  his  connection  with  the  Mirror,  though,  as  he  deemed,  only 
for  a  little  time,  and  returned  to  New  London,  in  hope  that  relaxa 
tion  and  domestic  quiet  would  soon  enable  him  to  resume  his  duties. 
During  the  following  summer  he  spent  a  short  time  on  Long  Island, 


260  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 


where  he  composed  the  well-known  sketch,  "  The  Invalid  on  the 
East  End  of  Long  Island ;  "  but  no  beneficial  result  followed  the 
change — and  he  returned  to  New  London,  convinced  that  he  must 
abandon  all  thought  of  resuming  his  editorial  labors,  though  he  still 
continued  to  write  occasionally  for  the  Mirror,  as  a  poetical  corres 
pondent.  His  disease  soon  assumed  the  character  of  consumption, 
and  the  work  of  life  which  now  remained  for  him  was  to  prepare  for 
his  final  change.  He  devoted  much  of  his  time  to  religious  study 
and  meditation,  and  united  himself  to  the  communion  of  the  Congre 
gational  Church  at  New  London.  His  religious  feelings  seemed  of 
a  true  and  healthful  character,  and  he  looked  forward  to  the  approach 
of  death  not  only  without  fear,  but  even  with  an  earnest  desire.  He 
lingered  until  the  26th  of  September,  1828,  when  his  spirit  passed 
peacefully  away.  His  death  was  widely  deplored,  and  caused  an 
universal  expression  of  sympathy  from  his  brethren  associated  with 
the  press.  Many  lyres  were  strung  to  notes  of  lamentation ;  and  we 
cannot  forbear  an  extract  from  a  feeling  monody  by  his  friend,  Mrs. 
SIGOURNEY  : 

Each  sylvan  haunt  he  loved, — the  simplest  flower 
That  burned  heaven's  incense  in  its  bosom  fair, 
The  crested  billow  with  its  fitful  power, 
The  chirping  nest  that  claimed  another's  care, 
All  woke  his  worship,  as  some  altar  rare 
Or  sainted  shrine  doth  win  the  pilgrim's  knee  ; 
And  he  hath  gone  to  rest  where  earth  and  air 
Lavish  their  sweetest  charms, — while  loud  and  free 
Sounds  forth  the  wind-swept  harp  of  his  own  native  sea. 


Youth  with  glad  hand  her  frolic  germs  had  sown, 
And  garlands  clustered  round  his  manly  head  ; 
Those  garlands  withered, — and  he  stood  alone, 
While  on  his  cheek  the  gnawing  hectic  fed, 
And  chilling  death-dews  o'er  his  temple  spread  : 
But  on  his  soul  a  quenchless  star  arose, 
Whose  hallowed  beams  their  brightest  lustre  shed 
When  the  dimmed  eye  to  its  last  pillow  goes  ; 
He  followed  where  it  led,  and  found  a  saint's  repose. 

And  now,  farewell !     The  rippling  stream  shall  hear 
No  more  the  echo  of  thy  sportive  oar ; 
Nor  the  loved  group,  thy  father's  halls  that  cheer, 
Joy  in  the  magic  of  thy  presence  more  ;     . 
Long  shall  their  tears  thy  broken  lyre  deplore ; 
Yet  doth  thine  image,  warm  and  deathless,  dwell 
With  those  who  love  the  minstrel's  tuneful  lore, — 
And  still  thy  music,'  like  a  treasured  spell, 
Thrills  deep  within  our  souls.     Lamented  bard,  farewell ! 


JOHN     G.     C.    BRAINARD. 


261 


In  private  life,  BRAINARD  was  most  highly  esteemed.  He  was  fond 
of  social  intercourse;  and  superior  powers  of  conversation,,  and  a 
fund  of  cheerful  humor,  often  rendered  him  the  delight  of  the  circle. 
His  feelings  were  peculiarly  sensitive — a  circumstance  which  often 
proved  a  source  of  uneasiness  to  his  friends.  His  character  through 
life  was  marked  at  times  by  a  shade  of  melancholy,  and  his  verse  is 
often  imbued  with  a  spirit  of  pleasing  sadness.  As  an  editor,  he 
seemed  little  better  adapted  to  the  rougher  tasks  of  political  partizan- 
ship  than  to  the  abstractions  of  law.  Aside  from  a  constitutional 
aversion  to  such  duties  as  would  bring  him  into  a  bold  and  public 
intercourse  with  his  fellow  men,  he  ever  .manifested  a  reluctance  to 
engage  in  high  and  continued  effort.  Thus  his  taste  and  feelings 
inclined  him  rather  to  the  literary  than  the  political  department  of 
his  paper,  and  in  this  character  consisted  its  chief  charm. 

The  poems  of  BRAINARD  have  won  a  degree  of  favor  both  at  home 
and  abroad,  which  has  been  extended  to  but  few  of  our  native  bards. 
They  were  hastily  written,  and  revised  with  too  little  care,  but  are 
distinguished  by  a  high  order  of  beauty.  An  entire  originality,  a  true 
and  deep  and  natural  vein  of  feeling,  a  love  of  all  things  beautiful,  a 
rich  humor,  and  a  character  purely  American,  have  rendered  him  a 
universal  favorite,  and  have  peculiarly  endeared  his  memory  to  his 
native  commonwealth. 

In  1832,  the  "Literary  Remains"  of  our  author,  with  a  sketch 
of  his  life  by  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER,  was  published  by  P.  B. 
GOODSELL,  and  in  1842,  a  more  authentic  collection  of  his  poems, 
with  a  memoir  of  his  life,  was  published  by  EDWARD  HOPKINS. 
This  last  edition  is  one  of  great  beauty,  and  well  worthy  the  charac 
ter  of  him  whose  genius  it  commemorates. 


TO   THE   CONNECTICUT   RIVER. 
From  that  lone  lake,  the  sweetest  of  the  chain, 
That  links  the  mountain  to  the  mighty  main, 
Fresh  from  the  rock  and  swelling  by  the  tree, 
Rushing  to  meet  and  dare  and  breast  the  sea — 
Fair,  noble,  glorious  river !  in  thy  wave 
The  sunniest  slopes  and  sweetest  pastures  lave ; 
The  mountain  torrent,  with  its  wintry  roar 
Springs  from  its  home  and  leaps  upon  thy  shore : 
The  promontories  love  thee — and  for  this 
Turn  their  rough  cheeks  and  stay  thee  for  thy  kiss. 

Stern,  at  thy  source,  thy  northern  Guardians  stand, 
Rude  rulers  of  the  solitary  land, 


Wild  dwellers  by  thy  cold  sequestered  springs, 
Of  earth  the  feathers  and  of  air  the  wings  ; 
Their  blasts  have  rocked  thy  cradle,  and  in  storm 
Covered  thy  couch,  and  swathed  in  snow  thy  form ; 
Yet,  blessed  by  all  the  elements  that  sweep 
The  clouds  above,  or  the  unfathomed  deep, 
The  purest  breezes  scent  thy  blooming  hills, 
The  gentlest  dews  drop  on  thy  eddying  rills  ; 
By  the  mossed  bank,  and  by  the  aged  tree, 
The  silver  streamlet  smoothest  glides  to  thee. 

The  young  oak  greets  thee  at  the  water's  edge, 
Wet  by  the  wave,  though  anchored  in  the  ledge. 
'T  is  there  the  otter  dives,  the  beaver  feeds, 
Where  pensive  oziers  dip  their  willowy  weeds  ; 
And  there  the  wild-cat  purrs  amid  her  brood, 
And  trains  them,  in  the  sylvan  solitude, 
To  watch  the  squirrel's  leap,  or  mark  the  mink 
Paddling  the  water  by  the  quiet  brink — 
Or  to  out-gaze  the  grey  owl  in  the  dark, 
Or  hear  the  young  fox  practising  to  bark. 

Dark  as  the  frost-nipped  leaves  that  strewed  the  ground, 
The  Indian  hunter  here  his  shelter  found  ; 
Here  cut  his  bow  and  shaped  his  arrows  true, 
Here  built  his  wigwam  and  his  bark  canoe, 
Speared  the  quick  salmon  leaping  up  the  fall, 
And  slew  the  deer  without  the  rifle-ball. 
Here  his  young  squaw  her  cradling  tree  would  choose, 
Singing  her  chant  to  hush  her  swart  pappoose  ; 
Here  stain  her  quills  and  string  her  trinkets  rude, 
And  weave  her  warrior's  wampum  in  the  wood. 
No  more  shall  they  thy  welcome  waters  bless, 
No  more  their  forms  thy  moonlit  banks  shall  press, 
No  more  be  heard  from  mountain  or  from  grove, 
His  whoop  of  slaughter,  or  her  song  of  love. 

Thou  didst  not  shake,  thou  didst  not  shrink  when,  late 
The  mountain-top  shut  down  its  ponderous  gate, 
Tumbling  its  tree-grown  ruins  to  thy  side, 
An  avalanche  of  acres  at  a  slide. 


JOHN     G.     C.    BRAINARD. 


263 


Nor  dost  thou  stay,  when  Winter's  coldest  breath 
Howls  through  the  woods  and  sweeps  along  the  heath  ; 
One  mighty  sigh  relieves  thy  icy  breast 
And  wakes  thee  from  the  calmness  of  thy  rest. 

Down  sweeps  the  torrent  ice — it  may  not  stay 
By  rock  or  bridge,  in  narrow  or  in  bay ; 
Swift,  swifter  to  the  heaving  sea  it  goes, 
And  leaves  thee  dimpling  in  thy  sweet  repose. 
Yet  as  the  unharmed  swallow  skims  his  way, 
And  lightly  drops  his  pinions  in  thy  spray, 
So  the  swift  sail  shall  seek  thy  inland  seas, 
And  swell  and  whiten  in  thy  purer  breeze, 
New  paddles  dip  thy  waters,  and  strange  oars 
Feather  thy  waves  and  touch  thy  noble  shores. 

Thy  noble  shores !  where  the  tall  steeple  shines, 
At  midday,  higher  than  thy  mountain  pines, 
Where  the  white  school-house,  with  its  daily  drill 
Of  sunburnt  children,  smiles  upon  the  hill, 
Where  the  neat  village  grows  upon  the  eye 
Decked  forth  in  nature's  sweet  simplicity, 
Where  hard-won  competence,  the  farmer's  wealth, 
Gains  merit,  honor,  and  gives  labor  health, 
Where  GOLDSMITH'S  self  might  send  his  exiled  band, 
To  find  a  new  "  Sweet  Auburn  "  in  our  land. 

What  Art  can  execute  or  Taste  devise, 
Decks  thy  fair  course  and  gladdens  in  thine  eyes — 
As  broader  sweep  the  bendings  of  thy  stream, 
To  meet  the  southern  sun's  more  constant  beam. 
Here  cities  rise,  and  sea-washed  commerce  hails 
Thy  shores  and  winds  with  all  her  flapping  sails, 
From  Tropic  isles,  or  from  the  torrid  main — 
Where  grows  the  grape,  or  sprouts  the  sugar-cane — 
Or  from  the  haunts,  where  the  striped  haddock  play, 
By  each  cold  northern  bank  and  frozen  bay. 
Here,  safe  returned  from  every  stormy  sea, 
Waves  the  striped  flag,  the  mantle  of  the  free — 
That  star-lit  flag,  by  all  the  breezes  curled 
Of  yon  vast  deep  whose  waters  grasp  the  world. 


264  POETS    OFCONNECTICUT. 

In  what  Arcadian,  what  Utopian  ground 
Are  warmer  hearts  or  manlier  feelings  found,. 
More  hospitable  welcome,  or  more  zeal 
To  make  the  curious  "  tarrying  "  stranger  feel 
That,  next  to  home,  here  best  may  he  abide, 
To  rest  and  cheer  him  by  the  chimney-side  ; 
Drink  the  hale  Farmer's  cider,  as  he  hears 
From  the  grey  dame  the  tales  of  other  years  ; 
Cracking  his  shagbarks,  as  the  aged  crone, 
Mixing  the  true  and  doubtful  into  one, 
Tells  how  the  Indian  scalped  the  helpless  child, 
And  bore  its  shrieking  mother  to  the  wild — 
Butchered  the  father  hastening  to  his  home, 
Seeking  his  cottage — finding  but  his  tomb  ; 
How  drums  and  flags  and  troops  were  seen  on  high, 
Wheeling  and  charging  in  the  northern  sky, 
And  that  she  knew  what  these  wild  tokens  meant,  - 
When  to  the  Old  French  War  her  husband  went ; 
How,  by  the  thunder-blasted  tree,  was  hid 
The  golden  spoils  of  far-famed  ROBERT  KIDD  ; 
And  then  the  chubby  grand-child  wants  to  know 
About  the  ghosts  and  witches  lo«g  ago, 
That  haunted  the  old  swamp. 

The  clock  strikes  ten — 
The  prayer  is  said,  nor  unforgotten  then 
The  stranger  in  their  gates.     A  decent  rule 
Of  Elders  in  thy  Puritanic  school. 

When  the  fresh  morning  wakes  him  from  his  dream, 
And  daylight  smiles  on  rock,  and  slope  and  stream, 
Are  there  not  glossy  curls  and  sunny  eyes, 
As  brightly  lit  and  bluer  than  thy  skies  ? 
Voices  as  gentle  as  an  echoed  call, 
And  sweeter  than  the  softened  waterfall 
That  smiles  and  dimples  in  its  Avhispering  spray, 
Leaping  in  sportive  innocence  away — 
And  lovely  forms,  as  graceful  and  as  gay 
As  wild-brier,  budding  in  an  April  day ! 
How  like  the  leaves,  the  fragrant  leaves  it  bears, 
•      Their  sinless  purposes  and  simple  cares ! 


JOHN    G.     C.     BRAINARD.  265 

_^^N_'-^-V^^-'--N^X^-N_/--N_^>_^-N^-N^ 

Stream  of  my  sleeping  Fathers !  when  the  sound 
Of  coming  war  echoed  thy  hills  around, 
How  did  thy  sons  start  forth  from  every  glade, 
Snatching  the  musket  where  they  left  the  spade ! 
How  did  their  mothers  urge  them  to  the  fight, 
Their  sisters  tell  them  to  defend  the  right, — 
How  bravely  did  they  stand,  how  nobly  fall, 
The  earth  their  coffin  and  the  turf  their  pall ! 
How  did  the  aged  pastor  light  his  eye, 
When,  to  his  flock,  he  read  the  purpose  high 
And  stern  resolve,  whate'er  the  toil  may  be, 
To  pledge  life,  name,  fame,  all — for  Liberty. 
Cold  is  the  hand  that  penned  that  glorious  page — 
Still  in  the  grave  the  body  of  that  sage 
Whose  lip  of  eloquence  and  heart  of  zeal, 
Made  Patriots  act  and  listening  Statesmen  feel — 
Brought  thy  Green  Mountains  down  upon  their  foes, 
And  thy  white  summits  melted  of  their  snows — 
While  every  vale  to  which  his  voice  could  come, 
Rang  with  the  fife  and  echoed  to  the  drum. 

Bold  river !  better  suited  are  thy  waves 
To  nurse  the  laurels  clustering  round  their  graves, 
Than  many  a  distant  stream,  that  soaks  the  mud, 
Where  thy  brave  sons  have  shed  their  gallant  blood, 
And  felt,  beyond  all  other  mortal  pain, 
They  ne'er  should  see  their  happy  home  again. 

Thou  hadst  a  Poet  once, — and  he  could  tell, 
Most  tunefully,  whate'er  to  thee  befell, 
Could  fill  each  pastoral  reed  upon  thy  shore — 
But  we  shall  hear  his  classic  lays  no  more ! 
He  loved  thee,  but  he  took  his  aged  way, 
By  Erie's  shore,  and  PERRY'S  glorious  day, 
To  where  Detroit  looks  out  amidst  the  wood, 
Remote  beside  the  dreary  solitude. 

Yet  for  his  brow  thy  ivy  leaf  shall  spread, 
Thy  freshest  myrtle  lift  its  berried  head, 
And  our  gnarled  Charter-Oak  put  forth  a  bough, 
Whose  leaves  shall  grace  thy  TRUMBULL'S  honored  brow. 


266 


POETS  OF  CONNECTICUT. 


JERUSALEM. 

Four  lamps  were  burning  o'er  two  mighty  graves — 
GODFREY'S  and  BALDWIN'S* — Salem's  Christian  kings  ; 
And  holy  light  glanced  from  HELENA'S  naves, 
Fed  with  the  incense  which  the  Pilgrim  brings, — 
While  through  the  pannelled  roof  the  cedar  flings 
Its  sainted  arms  o'er  choir,  and  roof,  and  dome, 
And  every  porphyry-pillared  cloister  rings 
To  every  kneeler  there  its  "  welcome  home," 
As  every  lip  breathes  out,  "  0  LORD,  thy  kingdom  come." 

A  mosque  was  garnished  with  its  crescent  moons, 
And  a  clear  voice  called  Mussulmans  to  prayer. 
There  were  the  splendors  of  Judea's  thrones — 
There  were  the  trophies  which  its  conquerors  wear — 
All  but  the  truth,  the  holy  truth,  was  there  : 
For  there,  with  lip  profane,  the  crier  stood, 
And  him  from  the  tall  minaret  you  might  hear, 
Singing  to  all  whose  steps  had  thither  trod, 
That  verse  misunderstood,  "  There  is  no  GOD  but  GOD." 

Hark !  did  the  Pilgrim  tremble  as  he  kneeled  ? 
And  did  the  turbaned  Turk  his  sins  confess  ? 
Those  mighty  hands  the  elements  that  wield, 
That  mighty  Power  that  knows  to  curse  or  bless, 
Is  over  all ;  and  in  whatever  dress 
His  suppliants  crowd  around  him,  HE  can  see 
Their  heart,  in  city  or  in  wilderness, 
And  probe  its  core,  and  make  its  blindness  flee, 
Owning  Him  very  GOD,  the  only  Deity. 

*  GODFREY  and  BALDWIN  were  the  first  Christian  kings  at  Jerusalem.  The 
Empress  HELENA,  mother  of  CONSTANTINE  the  Great,  built  the  Church  of  the 
Sepulchre  on  Mount  Calvary.  The  walls  are  of  stone  and  the  roof  of  cedar. 
The  four  lamps  which  light  it  are  very  costly.  It  is  kept  in  repair  by  the 
offerings  of  pilgrims  who  resort  to  it.  The  Mosque  was  originally  a  Jewish 
Temple.  The  Emperor  JULIAN  undertook  to  re-build  the  temple  of  Jerusalem 
at  very  great  expense,  to  disprove  the  prophecy  of  our  Saviour,  as  it  was 
understood  by  the  Jews  ;  but  the  work  and  the  workmen  were  destroyed  by 
an  earthquake.  The  pools  of  Bethesda  and  Gihon — the  tomb  of  the  Virgin 
MARY,  and  of  King  JEHOSHAPHAT — the  pillar  of  ABSALOM — the  tomb  of  ZACHA- 
RIAH — and  the  campo  santo,  or  holy  field,  which  is  supposed  to  have  been 
purchased  with  the  price  of  JUDAS'  treason,  are,  or  were  lately,  the  most 
interesting  parts  of  Jerusalem. 


JOHN     G.     C.     BRAINARD. 

There  was  an  earthquake  once  that  rent  thy  fane, 
Proud  JULIAN  ;  when,  (against  the  prophecy 
Of  Him  who  lived,  and  died,  and  rose  again, 
"  That  one  stone  on  another  should  not  lie,") 
Thou  wouldst  re-build  that  Jewish  masonry, 
To  mock  the  eternal  Word.     The  earth  below 
Gushed  out  in  fire  ;  and  from  the  brazen  sky, 
And  from  the  boiling  seas  such  wrath  did  flow, 
As  saw  not  Shinar's  plain,  nor  Babel's  overthrow. 

Another  earthquake  comes  !     Dome,  roof,  and  wall 
Tremble  ;  and,  headlong  to  the  grassy  bank, 
And  in  the  muddied  stream,  the  fragments  fall,' 
While  the  rent  chasm  spread  its  jaws,  and  drank 
At  one  huge  draft,  the  sediment,  which  sank 
In  Salem's  drained  goblet.     Mighty  Power ! 
Thou  whom  we  all  should  worship,  praise  and  thank, 
Where  was  thy  mercy  in  that  awful  hour, 
When  hell  moved  from  beneath,  and  thine  own  heaven  did 
lower  ? 

Say,  PILATE'S  palaces — proud  HEROD'S  towers — 
Say,  gate  of  Bethlehem,  did  your  arches  quake  ? 
Thy  pool,  Bethesda,  was  it  filled  with  showers  ? 
Calm  Gihon,  did  the  jar  thy  waters  wake  ? 
Tomb  of  thee,  MARY — Virgin — did  it  shake  ? 
Glowed  thy  bought  field,  Aceldema,  with  blood  ? 
Where  were  the'shudderings  Calvary  might  make  ? 
Did  sainted  Mount  Moriah  send  a  flood, 
To  wash  away  the  spot  where  once  a  GOD  had  stood  1 

Lost  Salem  of  the  Jews — great  sepulchre 
Of  all  profane  and  of  all  holy  things — 
Where  Jew,  and  Turk,  and  Gentile  yet  concur 
To  make  thee  what  thou  art !  thy  history  brings 
Thoughts  mixed  of  joy  and  woe.     The  whole  earth  rings 
With  the  sad  truth  which  He  has  prophesied, 
Who  would  have  sheltered  with  his  holy  wings 
Thee  and  thy  children.     You  his  power  defied  : 
You  scourged  him  while  he  lived,  and  mocked  him  as  he  died  ! 


268  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

There  is  a  star  in  the  untroubled  sky, 
That  caught  the  first  light  which  its  Maker  made  ; 
It  led  the  hymn  of  other  orbs  on  high ; 
'T  will  shine  when  all  the  fires  of  heaven  shall  fade. 
Pilgrims  at  Salem's  porch,  be  that  your  aid ! 
For  it  has  kept  its  watch  on  Palestine ! 
Look  to  its  holy  light,  nor  be  dismayed, 
Though  broken  is  each  consecrated  shrine, 
Though  crushed  and  ruined  all — which  men  have  called 
divine. 


TRANSTULIT    SUSTINET.* 
The  warrior  may  twine  round  his  temples  the  leaves 

Of  the  laurel  that  victory  throws  him ; 
The  Lover  may  smile  as  he  joyously  weaves 

The  Myrtle  that  beauty  bestows  him. 
The  Poet  may  gather  his  ivy,  and  gaze 

On  its  evergreen  honors  enchanted  ; 
But  what  are  their  ivys,  their  myrtles,  and  bays, 

To  the  vine  that  our  forefathers  planted ! 

Let  France  boast  the  lily — let  Britain  be  vain 

Of  her  thistles,  and  shamrocks,  and  roses  ; 
Our  shrubs  and  our  blossoms  sprout  out  from  the  main, 

And  our  bold  shore  their  beauty  discloses. 
With  a  home  and  a  country,  a  soul  and  a  GOD, 

What  freeman  with  terrors  is  haunted  ! 
Bedecked  with  the  dew-drops  and  washed  with  the  flood 

Is  the  vine  that  our  forefathers  planted. 

Then  a  health  to  the  brave  and  the  worthy,  that  bore 

The  vine  whose  rich  clusters  o'ershade  us  ; 
They  planted  its  root  by  the  rocks  of  the  shore, 

And  called  down  His  blessing  who  made  us. 
And  a  health  to  the  Fair,  who  will  raise  up  a  brave 

Generation  of  Yankees  undaunted, 
To  nourish,  to  cherish,  to  honor,  arid  save 

The  vine  that  our  forefathers  planted. 

*  Motto  of  the  Arms  of  Connecticut. 


JOHN     G.     C.     BRAINARD. 


269 


SATURDAY  NIGHT   AT   SEA.* 

A  mother  stood  by  the  pebbled  shore, 

In  her  hand  she  held  a  bowl — 
"  Now  I  '11  drink  a  draught  of  the  salted  seas 

That  broadly  to  me  roll ! 
On  them  I  have  an  only  son, 

Can  he  forget  me  quite  1 
Oh !  if  his  week  away  has  run, 

He  '11  think  of  me  this  night ; 
And  may  he  never  on  the  track 

^  Of  ocean  in  its  foam, 
Fail  to  look  gladly — kindly  back 

To  those  he  left  at  home. 
I  pledge  him  in  the  ocean-brine, 
Let  him  pledge  me  in  ruddy  wine." 

A  sister  stood  where  the  breakers  fall 

In  thunders,  on  the  beach, 
And  out  were  stretched  her  eager  arms, 

For  one  she  could  not  reach. 
"  I  '11  dip  my  hand,  my  foot,  my  lip, 

Into  the  foaming  white, 
For  sure  as  this  sand  the  sea  doth  sip, 

He  '11  think  of  me  this  night. 
And  may  he  never  on  the  deck, 

Or  on  the  giddy  mast, 
In  gale  or  battle,  storm  or  wreck, 

Forget  the  happy  past. 
I  pledge  him  in  the  ocean-brine, 
Let  him  pledge  me  in  ruddy  wine." 

A  wife  went  down  to  the  water's  brink, 

And  thither  a  goblet  brought : 
"  Here  will  I  drink  and  here  I  '11  think 

As  once  we  two  have  thought. 

*  It  is  well  known  that  naval  officers,  as  well  as  their  seamen,  appropriate 
Saturday  night  at  sea  to  the  subject  of  their  "domestic  relations,1'  over  a  glass 
of  wine,  or  of  grog,  as  the  case  may  be.  It  may  not  be  so  notorious  that  their 
female  friends  drink  salt  water  in  celebration  of  this  nautical  vigil. 


23' 


270  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

S_^*w^^^-v^-^^^-X_/-N^-N_X-X^-\^V-r-s_/-^^^ 

We  've  romped  by  rock,  and  wood,  and  shore, 

When  moon  and  stars  were  bright, 
And  he,  where'er  the  tempests  roar, 

Will  think  on  me  this  night. 
And  may  he  ever,  ever  meet 

With  a  friend  as  true  and  kind ; 
But  not  to-night  shall  he  forget 

The  wife  he  left  behind. 
I  sip  for  him  the  ocean-brine, 
He  '11  quaff  for  me  the  ruddy  wine." 

A  maid  came  down  with  a  hasty  foot —        • 

"  My  lover  is  far  at  sea, 
But  I  '11  fill  'my  cup,  and  I  '11  drink  it  out 

To  him  who  deserted  me. 
Nor  mother,  nor  sister,  nor  wife  am  I, 

His  careless  heart  is  light — 
And  he  will  neither  weep,  nor  sigh, 

Nor  think  of  me  this  night ! 
He  will,  HE  WILL,  a  Sailor's  heart 

Is  true  as  it  is  brave, 
From  home  and  love  't  will  no  more  part 

Than  the  keel  will  quit  the  wave. 
I  pledge  thee,  Love,  in  ocean's  brine, 
Pledge  gaily  back  in  ruddy  wine." 


THE   FALL   OF   NIAGARA. 

Labitur  et  labetur. 

The  thoughts  are  strange  that  crowd  into  my  brain, 
While  I  look  upward  to  thee.     It  would  seem 
As  if  GOD  poured  thee  from  his  "  hollow  hand," 
And  hung  his  bow  upon  thine  awful  front ; 
And  spoke  in  that  loud  voice,  which  seemed  to  him 
Who  dwelt  in  Patmos  for  his  Saviour's  sake, 
"  The  sound  of  many  waters  ; "  and  had  bade 
Thy  flood  to  chronicle  the  ages  back, 
And  notch  His  centuries  in  the  eternal  rocks. 


JOHN     G.     C.    BRAINARD. 

'-s»^_^-x^'^_^^-^-N_x->k_^^-^'^^ 

Deep  calleth  unto  deep.     And  what  are  we, 
That  hear  the  question  of  that  voice  sublime  ? 
Oh !  what  are  all  the  notes  that  ever  rung 
From  war's  vain  trumpet,  by  thy  thundering  side ! 
Yea,  what  is  all  the  riot  man  can  make 
In  his  short  life,  to  thy  unceasing  roar ! 
And  yet,  bold  babbler,  what  art  thou  to  HIM, 
Who  drowned  a  world,  and  heaped  the  waters  far 
Above  its  loftiest  mountains  ? — a  light  wave, 
That  breaks,  and  whispers  of  its  Maker's  might. 


LEATHER   STOCKING. 

The  following  lines  refer  to  the  good  wishes  which  ELIZABETH,  in  Mr. 
COOPER'S  novel  of  "  The  Pioneers,"  manifested  for  the  welfare  of'"  LEATHER 
STOCKING,"  when  he  signified  at  the  grave  of  the  Indian,  his  determination  to 
quit  the  settlements  of  men  for  the  forests  of  the  west ;  and  when,  whistling  to 
his  dogs,  with  his  rifle  on  his  shoulder,  and  his  pack  on  his  back,  he  left  the 
village  of  Templeton. 

Far  away  from  the  hill-side,  the  lake  and  the  hamlet, 
The  rock  and  the  brook,  and  yon  meadow  so  gay ; 
From  the  footpath  that  winds  by  the  side  of  the  streamlet ; 

From  his  hut,  and  the  grave  of  his  friend,  far  away — 

He  is  gone  where  the  footsteps  of  man  never  ventured, 

Where  the  glooms  of  the  wide-tangled  forest  are  centered, 

Where  no  beam  of  the  sun  or  the  sweet  moon  has  entered, 

No  blood-hound  has  roused  up  the  deer  with  his  bay. 

He  has  left  the  green  alley  for  paths  where  the  bison 
Roams  through  the  prairies,  or  leaps  o'er  the  flood ; 
Where  the  snake  in  the  swamp  sucks  its  deadliest  poison, 
And  the  cat  of  the  mountains  keeps  watch  for  its  food  ; 
But  the  leaf  shall  be  greener,  the  sky  shall  be  purer, 
The  eye  shall  be  clearer,  the  rifle  be  surer, 
And  stronger  the  arm  of  the  fearless  endurer, 

That  trusts  nought  but  HEAVEN  in  his  Avay  through  the 
wood. 

Light  be  the  heart  of  the  poor  lonely  wanderer  ; 

Firm  be  his  step  through  each  wearisome  mile  ; 
Far  from  the  cruel  man,  far  from  the  plunderer ; 

Far  from  the  track  of  the  mean  and  the  vile. 


272 


POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 


And  when  death,  with  the  last  of  its  terrors,  assails  him, 
And  all  but  the  last  throb  of  memory  fails  him, 
He  '11  think  of  the  friend,  far  away,  that  bewails  him, 
And  light  up  the  cold  touch  of  death  with  a  smile. 

Arid  there  shall  the  dew  shed  its  sweetness  and  lustre ; 

There  for  his  pall  shall  the  oak  leaves  be  spread  ; 
The  sweet  briar  shall  bloom,  and  the  wild  grape  shall  cluster  ; 

And  o'er  him  the  leaves  of  the  ivy  be  shed. 
There  shall  they  mix  with  the  fern  and  the  heather ; 
There  shall  the  young  eagle  shed  its  first  feather ; 
The  wolves,  with  his  wild  dogs,  shall  lie  there  together, 

And  moan  o'er  the  spot  where  the  hunter  is  laid. 


MR.  MERRY'S  LAMENT  FOR  "LONG  TOM," 

Whose  drowning  is  mentioned  in  the  sixth  chapter  of  the  second  volume 
of  "  The  Pilot,"  by  the  author  of  "  The  Pioneers." 

"  Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep 
Full  many  a  fathom  deep, 
By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 
Elsinore." 

Thy  cruise  is  over  now, 

Thou  art  anchored  by  the  shore, 
And  never  more  shalt  thou 

Hear  the  storm  around  thee  roar ; 
Death  hath  shaken  out  the  sands  of  thy  glass. 
Now  around  thee  sports  the  whale, 
And  the  porpoise  snuffs  the  gale, 
And  the  night-winds  wake  their  wail, 

As  they  pass. 
The  sea-grass  round  thy  bier 

Shall  bend  beneath  the  tide, 
Nor  tell  the  breakers  near, 

Where  thy  manly  limbs  abide  ; 
But  the  granite  rock  thy  tomb-stone  shall  be. 
Though  the  edges  of  thy  grave 
Are  the  combings  of  the  wave — 
Yet  unheeded  they  shall  rave 
Over  thee. 


JOHN    G.     C.     BRAINARD.  273 

At  the  piping  of  all  hands, 

When  the  Judgment  signal 's  spread — 
When  the  islands,  and  the  lands, 

And  the  seas  give  up  their  dead, 
And  the  south  and  the  north  shall  come : 
When  the  sinner  is  betrayed, 
And  the  just  man  is  afraid, 
Then  HEAVEN  be  thy  aid. 
Poor  TOM. 


STANZAS. 
The  dead  leaves  strew  the  forest  walk, 

And  withered  are  the  pale  wild  flowers ; 
The  frost  hangs  blackening  on  the  stalk, 

The  dew-drops  fall  in  frozen  showers. 

Gone  are  the  Spring's  green  sprouting  bowers, 
Gone  Summer's  rich  and  mantling  vines, 

And  Autumn,  with  her  yellow  hours, 
On  hill  and  plain  no  longer  shines. 

I  learned  a  clear  and  wild-toned  note, 

That  rose  and  swelled  from  yonder  tree  ; 
A  gay  bird,  with  too  sweet  a  throat, 

There  perched  and  raised  her  song  for  me. 

The  winter  comes,  and  where  is  she  ? 
Away — where  summer  wings  will  rove — 

Where  buds  are  fresh,  and  every  tree 
Is  vocal  with  the  notes  of  love. 

Too  mild  the  breath  of  southern  sky, 

Too  fresh  the  flower  that  blushes  there, 
The  northern  breeze  that  rustles  by, 

Finds  leaves  too  green,  and  buds  too  fair ; 

No  forest  tree  stands  stript  and  bare, 
No  stream  beneath  the  ice  is  dead ; 

No  mountain  top  with  sleety  hair 
Bends  o'er  the  snows  its  reverend  head. 

Go  there,  with  all  the  birds,  and  seek 
A  happier  clime,  with  livelier  flight, 


274  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Kiss,  with  the  sun,  the  evening's  cheek, 
And  leave  me  lonely  with  the  night. 
I  '11  gaze  upon  the  cold  north  light, 

And  mark  where  all  its  glories  shone ; 
See — that  it  all  is  fair  and  bright, 

Feel — that  it  all  is  cold  and  gone. 


THE  DEEP. 

There  's  beauty  in  the  deep  : 
The  wave  is  bluer  than  the  sky ; 
And  though  the  lights  shine  bright  on  high, 
More  softly  do  the  sea-gems  glow 
That  sparkle  in  the  depths  below ; 
The  rainbow's  tints  are  only  made 
When  on  the  waters  they  are  laid, 
And  Sun  and  Moon  most  sweetly  shine 
Upon  the  ocean's  level  brine. 

There  's  beauty  in  the  deep. 

There 's  music  in  the  deep  : 
It  is  not  in  the  surfs  rough  roar, 
Nor  in  the  whispering,  shelly  shore — 
They  are  but  earthly  sounds,  that  tell 
How  little  of  the  sea-nymph's  shell, 
That  sends  its  loud  clear  note  abroad, 
Or  winds  its  softness  through  the  flood, 
Echoes  through  groves  with  coral  gay> 
And  dies,  on  spongy  banks,  away. 

There's  music  in  the  deep. 

There  's  quiet  in  the  deep  : 
Above,  let  tides  and  tempests  rave, 
And  earth-born  whirlwinds  wake  the  wave  ; 
Above,  let  care  and  fear  contend 
With  sin  and  sorrow  to  the  end  ; 
Here,  far  beneath  the  tainted  foam, 
That  frets  above  our  peaceful  home, 
We  dream  in  joy,  and  wake  in  love, 
Nor  know  the  rage  that  yells  above. 

There  's  quiet  in  the  deep. 


JOHN     G.     C.     BRAINARD. 


275 


EPITHALAMIUM. 
I  saw  two  clouds  at  morning, 

Tinged  with  the  rising  sun  ; 
And  in  the  dawn  they  floated  on, 

And  mingled  into  one  ; 
I  thought  that  morning  cloud  was  blest, 
It  moved  so  sweetly  to  the  west. 

I  saw  two  summer  currents 

Flow  smoothly  to  their  meeting, 
And  join  their  course,  with  silent  force, 

In  peace  each  other  greeting  : 
Calm  was  their  course  through  banks  of  green, 
While  dimpling  eddies  played  between. 

Such  be  your  gentle  motion, 

Till  life's  last  pulse  shall  beat ; 
Like  summer's  beam,  and  summer's  stream, 

Float  on,  in  joy,  to  meet 
A  calmer  sea,  where  storms  shall  cease, 
A  purer  sky,  where  all  is  peace. 


AFRICAN   COLONIZATION. 

"Magna  componere  parvis." 

All  sights  are  fair  to  the  recovered  blind — 
All  sounds  are  music  to  the  deaf  restored — 
The  lame,  made  whole,  leaps  like  the  sporting  hind  ; 
And  the  sad,  bowed-down  sinner,  with  his  load 
Of  shame  and  sorrow,  when  he  cuts  the  cord, 
And  drops  the  pack  it  bound,  is  free  again 
In  the  light  yoke  and  burden  of  his  LORD  ; 
Thus,  with  the  birthright  of  his  fellow  man, 
Sees,  hears,  and  feels  at  once,  the  righted  African. 

T  is  somewhat  like  the  burst  from  death  to  life — 
From  the  grave's  cerements  to  the  robes  of  heaven ; 
From  sin's  dominion  and  from  passion's  strife, 
To  the  pure  freedom  of  a  soul  forgiven ! 


276 


POETS     OP     CONNECTICUT. 


When  all  the  bonds  of  death  and  hell  are  riven, 
And  mortals  put  on  immortality  ; 
When  fear,  and  care,  and  grief  away  are  driven, 
And  Mercy's  hand  has  turned  the  golden  key, 
And  Mercy's  voice  has  said,  "  Rejoice — thy  soul  is  free  !  " 


LINES 

To  the/  memory  of  the  Rev.  LEVI  PARSONS,  who  was  associated  with  the 
Rev.  PLINY  FISK,  in  the  Palestine  mission,  and  died  at  Alexandria, 
February  18th,  1822. 

Green  as  MACHPELAH'S  honored  field 
Where  JACOB  and  where  LEAH  lie, 

Where  Sharon's  shrubs  their  roses  yield, 
And  Carmel's  branches  wave  on  high  ; 

So  honored,  so  adorned,  so  green, 

Young  martyr !  shall  thy  grave  be  seen. 

Oh !  how  unlike  the  bloody  bed 

Where  pride  and  passion  seek  to  lie  ; 

Where  faith  is  not,  where  hope  can  shed 
No  tear  of  holy  sympathy  ! 

There  withering  thoughts  shall  drop  around, 

In  dampness  on  the  lonely  mound. 
#*####### 

On  Jordan's  weeping  willow  trees, 

Another  holy  harp  is  hung; 
It  murmurs  in  as  soft  a  breeze, 

As  e'er  from  Gilead's  balm  was  flung, 
When  Judah's  tears,  in  Babel's  stream 
Dropped,  and  when  "  Zion  was  their  theme." 

So  may  the  harp  of  GABRIEL  sound 
In  the  high  heaven,  to  welcome  thee, 

When,  rising  from  the  holy  ground 
Of  Nazareth  and  Galilee, 

The  saints  of  GOD  shall  take  their  flight, 

In  rapture,  to  the  realms  of  light. 


GEORGE     HILL.  277 


GEORGE    HILL. 

[Born  1796.]  .  ' 

GEORGE  HILL,  like  his  friend  HALLECK,  is  a  native  of  Guilford, 
where  he  was  born,  we  believe,  in  1796.  He  entered  Yale  College 
before  he  had  completed  his  fifteenth  year,  and,  when  he  was  gradu 
ated,  received  the  "Berkeleian"  premium,  as  the  best  classical 
scholar  of  his  class.  After  leaving  college,  he  was  for  some  time 
employed  in  one  of  the  public  offices  at  Washington,  and  in  1827 
entered  the  Navy  as  Professor  of  Mathematics.  In  this  capacity  he 
visited  the  Mediterranean,  and  the  countries  adjacent,  whose  classic 
scenes  and  associations  have  not  failed  to  inspire  his  muse.  He  left 
the  Navy  in  1831,  and  was  appointed  Librarian  to  the  State  Depart 
ment  at  Washington.  In  1839,  he  was  appointed  United  States' 
Consul  for  the  south-western  portion  of  Asia  Minor.  His  health 
being  affected  by  the  climate,  he  returned  to  Washington,  and  is  now 
employed  in  the  Department  of  State. 

In  1839,  Mr.  HILL  published,  in  Boston,  "The  Ruins  of  Athens; 
Titania's  Banquet,  a  Mask ;  and  other  poems."  His  verse  is  often 
obscure  and  abrupt,  but  is  vigorous,  and  at  times  expressive  of  strong 
feeling.  It  is  rather  bold  and  striking  than  flowing  and  easy ;  and 
his  lighter  effusions  entitle  him  to  an  honorable  place  among  our 
lyrical  writers! 


ATHENS.* 

The  stars  recede  in  silence,  till  the  gun, 
Far  flashing,  ere  the  vapors  of  the  night 
Are  scattered,  thunders  from  the  Parthenon. 
The  mountains,  as  their  summits  catch  the  light, 
Withdraw  their  shadows,  and  from  each  old  height 
Whose  gods  have  fled,  and  of  their  dwelling  place 
See  cross  or  crescent  mark  the  mouldered  site, 
Send  up  their  dewy  incense  !  from  their  face, 
Light  curling  as  they  flee,  the  clouds  melt  into  space. 

*  From  "  The  Ruins  of  Athens." 

-v_^-s_x- 

24 


278  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

"^^-^fc^^^%^^^V-^V^^^^-^S-^^-^-^'^^^-N * •— '-V^-S_X-N_^-S_^^^_>->_X~X_^_/^ 

Alas  !  for  her,  the  beautiful  but  lone,. 
Dethroned  queen !  all  desolate  she  stands, 
Dropping  her  tears  upon  the  time-worn  stone, 
Whose  legend  dimly  tells  when  her  free  bands 
Wrested  from  kings  their  sceptres,  and  with  hands 
Red  with  the  blood  of  Satraps,  on  her  showered 
The  spoils  of  conquered,  gold  of  subject  lands  ; 
The  isles  their  tributary  tridents  lowered 
In  homage  at  her  feet ;  she  spake,  and  monarchs  cowered. 

The  bark  flies  on  and  shuns  the  lonely  shore, 
The  bay,  whose  wave  seems  never  to  have  borne 
A  keel,  or  rippled  to  the  dip  of  oar ; 
But  the  shy  sea-bird  there  has  found  a  lorn 
And  quiet  home,  and  of  the  plover  o'er 
The  hills  is  heard  the  melancholy  cry ; 
And  where  she  sat,  the  city,  she  before 
Whose  arms  the  East  bent  her  imperial  eye, 
A  solitude  !  a  wreck  !  whose  relics  grass-grown  lie ! 

But  so  it  is  !     Earth  from  her  old  lap  shakes 
Cities  as  dust ;  the  myriads  of  to-day 
To-morrow  rot ;  the  harrow  comes  and  rakes 
The  soil ;  they  fertilize  their  kindred  clay. 
And  not  for  them  the  dews  are  wept  away 
From  boughs  that,  bright  with  dripping  verdure,  wave 
To  winds  with  odors  laden,  as  if  they 
Were  gathered  from  no  flowers  that  strew  the  grave, 
Where  sleep,  alas  for  Greece !  the  relics  of  her  brave. 

The  Roman,  the  victorious,  he  whose  pride 
It  should  have  been  her  birth-right  to  reclaim, 
Nor  crush  and  trample  with  colossal  stride, 
The  conqueror  and  the  despoiler,  came. 
Chained  to  whose  triumph-car  and  taught  to  tame 
Her  freeborn  spirit  to  subjection,  she, 
Whose  sword  had  been  her  sceptre,  and  whose  name 
A  terror  to  imperial  sway,  her  knee 
Bent,  never  more  to  rise  a  ruler  of  the  free. 


GEORGE     HILL.  279 

_^>^-v-^-^-^-"v_-'-^_^^-^^-^^^_'^^ 

Not,  till  the  Goth  her  monuments  had  laid 
In  dust  and  trod  their  ashes,  and  the  West 
Her  cross-led  but  more  savage  host  arrayed 
In  sight  of  the  unconquered  strait,  whose  breast 
The  Persian  sepulchred,  and  of  the  crest 
Of  the  proud  isle,*  that  seems  a  mountain-tomb, 
By  nature  piled  and  consecrated,  lest 
Her  fame  should  perish,  till  the  Turk  his  drum 
Had  beat  where  arts,  of  old,  arms,  freedom,  found  a  home. 

But  as  the  rain-drops  that  have  disappeared, 
Laden  with  life  for  other  lands,  return 
And  fertilize,  though  tempest-borne,  the  seared 
Shorn  soil  whose  harvest  drains  its  thirsty  urn ; 
So  shall  the  spirit  that  in  Greece  had  birth, 
Though  now,  re-woke,  a  wasting  flame  it  burn, 
At  length  the  plough,  where  hostile  hoofs  her  earth 
In  conflict  trample,  see  uproot  the  fern, 
And  arts  revive,  and  War  his  idle  weapon  spurn. 

"  On  !  "  is  the  cry,  and  other  hordes  may  band 
And  build,  like  vultures,  though  the  crescent  wane, 
In  each  old  fastness  of  her  mountain  land, 
Re-waste  her  earth  and  link  her  shattered  chain  : 
But  Leuctra,  Salamis,  Platsea's  plain, 
And  wild  Thermopylae's  sepulchral  pass, 
The  monuments  of  nature,  these  remain. 
Perished  the  stone,  but  who  the  sighing  grass 
Wanders  unheeded  by  where  fell  LEONIDAS  ! 

From  cliff  and  cape  the  temple,  slowly  bowed, 
May  fall,  the  tomb  commingle  with  the  clay 
It  rose  to  shelter,  and  the  mighty  shroud 
Their  memory  in  deeper  gloom,  as  they 
Had  never  been,  her  very  name  decay  : 
But  from  the  spot  where  rose  her  song  in  fight, 
Her  shout,  as  on  the  memorable  day 
She  put  the  armed  Orient  to  flight, 
A  spirit  breathes,  a  power  no  coming  time  shall  blight. 

*  Salamis. 


(   280  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Here  stood  the  Greek,  and  there  the  Persian  shrank, 
Rider  on  rider  thrown  and  shield  on  shield  ; 
Bristling  with  spears,  an  iron  crop  they  sank, 
As  the  ripe  harvests  to  the  sickle  yield ; 
Tombless  to  rot  and  fertilize  the  field 
As  weeds,  they  came  as  conquerors  to  reap. 
Such  be  the  lot  of  all  that  fear  to  wield 
Arms  'gainst  the  tyrant  in  whose  train  they  creep : 
No  tongue  record  their  fall,  nor  tear  their  ashes  steep ! 

These  are  her  monuments !  to  these,  as  turns 
The  plough  some  warlike  relic  from  its  mould, 
Shall  point  the  sire ;  the  stripling,  as  he  learns 
How  the  brave  band,  though  nations  were  enrolled 
To  swell  the  Persian's,  thinned  his  host  of  old, 
Feel  the  wild  spark,  with  stirring  memories  fraught, 
Thrill  his  young  breast,  the  closing  ranks  behold 
Rush  fearless  on,  the  weapon  grasp,  in  thought, 
And  follow  where  they  trod,  and  conquer  where  they  fought. 

And  many  a  scene,  the  Muse  has  pictured  true, 
And  time  has  hallowed,  greets  the  passer-by, 
That,  wild  of  shape,  or  beautiful  of  hue, 
He  gladly  hails,  nor  quits  without  a  sigh ; 
For  Nature  here  has  shed  o'er  earth  and  sky 
Her  loveliest  tints,  and  freely  scattered  round 
The  wonders  of  her  hand.     O  !  hither  fly, 
Thou  who  wouldst  see,  as  on  enchanted  ground, 
Her  mighty  charms  unveiled,  and  miracles  abound. 


Land  of  the  the  free,  of  battle,  and  the  Muse ! 
It  grieves  me  that  my  first  farewell  to  thee 
Should  be  my  last ;  that,  nurtured  by  the  dews 
Of  thy  pure  fount,  some  blossoms  from  the  tree, 
Where  many  a  lyre  of  ancient  minstrelsy 
Now  silent  hangs,  I  plucked,  but  failed  to  rear. 
As  't  is,  a  chance-borne  pilgrim  of  the  sea, 
I  lay  them  on  thy  broken  altar  here, 
A  passing  worshipper,  but  humble  and  sincere. 


SONG   OF   THE   ELFIN   STEERSMAN.* 

One  elf,  I  trow,  is  diving  now 

For  the  small  pearl ;  and  one, 
The  honey-bee  for  his  bag  he 

Goes  chasing  in  the  sun  ; 
And  one,  the  knave,  has  pilfered  from 

The  Nautilus  his  boat, 
And  takes  his  idle  pastime  where 

The  water-lilies  float. 

And  some  the  mote,  for  the  gold  of  his  coat 

By  the  light  of  the  will-o'wisp  follow ; 
And  others  they  trip  where  the  alders  dip 

Their  leaves  in  the  watery  hollow ; 
And  one  is  with  the  fire-fly's  lamp 

Lighting  his  love  to  bed : 
Sprites,  away !  elf  and  fay, 

And  see  them  hither  sped. 

Haste !  hither  whip  them  with  this  end 

Of  spider's  web — anon 
The  ghost  will  have  fled  to  his  grave-bed, 

And  the  bat  winked  in  the  sun. 
Haste !  for  the  ship  till  the  moon  dip 

Her  horn  I  did  but  borrow  ; 
And  crowing  cocks  are  fairy  clocks, 

That  mind  us  of  to-morrow. 

The  summer  moon  will  soon  go  down, 

And  the  day-star  dim  her  horn, 
O  blow,  then,  blow,  till  not  a  wave 

Leap  from  the  deep  unshorn ! 
Blow,  sweep  their  white  tops  into  mist, 

As  merrily  we  roam, 
Till  the  wide  sea  one  bright  sheet  be, 

One  sheet  of  fire  and  foam. 

Blow,  till  the  sea  a  bubble  be, 
And  toss  it  to  the  sky, 

*  From  "  Titania's  Banquet." 
•^^^- 

24 ' 


Till  the  sands  we  tread  of  the  ocean-bed, 
As  the  summer  fountain's  dry. 

The  upper  shelves  are  ours,  my  elves, 
Are  ours,  and  soon  the  nether 

With  sea-flowers  we  shall  sprinkled  see, 
And  pearls  like  dew-drops  gather. 

The  summer  moon  will  soon  go  down, 

And  then  our  course  is  up ; 
Our  frigate  then  the  cockle-shell, 

Our  boat  the  bean-flower  cup. 
Sprites  away !  elf  and  fay, 

From  thicket,  lake,  and  hollow ; 
The  blind  bat,  look !  flits  to  his  nook, 

And  we  must  quickly  follow. 

Ha !  here  they  come,  skimming  the  foam, 

A  gallant  crew.     But  list ! 
I  hear  the  crow  of  the  cock — O  blow, 

Till  the  sea-foam  drift  like  mist. 
Fairies,  haste  !  flood  and  blast 

Quickly  bring,  and  stay 
The  moon's  horn,  look !  to  his  nook 

The  blind  bat  flits,  away ! 


THE  FALL   OF  THE   OAK. 

A  glorious  tree  is  the  old  gray  oak : 

He  has  stood  for  a  thousand  years, 
He  has  stood  and  frowned  on  the  trees  around, 

Like  a  king  among  his  peers. 
As  round  their  king  they  stand,  so  now, 

When  the  flowers  their  pale  leaves  fold, 
The  tall  trees  round  him  stand,  arrayed 

In  their  robes  of  purple  and  gold. 

The  autumn  sun  looks  kindly  down, 

But  the  frost  is  on  the  lea, 
And  sprinkles  the  horn  of  the  owl  at  morn, 

As  she  hies  to  the  old  oak  tree. 


GEORGE     HILL. 


283 


Not  a  leaf  is  stirred,  not  a  sound  is  heard,       •  '.%:' 
But  the  thump  of  the  thresher's  flail, 

The  low  wind's  sigh,  or  the  distant  cry 
Of  the  hound  on  the  fox's  trail. 

The  forester  he  has  whistling  plunged 

With  his  axe,  in  the  deep  wood's  gloom, 
That  shrouds  the  hill,  where  few  and  chill 

The  sunbeams  struggling  come  ; 
His  brawny  arm  he  has  bared,  and  laid 

His  axe  at  the  root  of  the  tree, 
The  gray  old  oak,  and,  with  lusty  stroke, 

He  wields  it  merrily, 

With  lusty  stroke  ;  and  the  gray  old  oak, 

Through  the  folds  of  his  gorgeous  vest 
You  may  see  him  shake,  and  the  night-owl  break 

From  her  perch  in  his  leafy  crest. 
She  will  come  but  to  find  him  gone  from  where 

He  stood  at  the  break  of  day  ; 
Like  a  cloud  that  peals  as  it  melts  to  air, 

He  has  passed,  with  a  crash,  away. 

Though  the  spring  in  the  bloom,  and  the  frost  in  gold, 

No  more  his  limbs  attire, 
On  the  stormy  wave  he  shall  float  and  brave 

The  blast  and  the  battle-fire ! 
Shall  spread  his  white  wings  to  the  wind, 

And  thunder  on  the  deep, 
As  he  thundered  when  his  bough  was  green, 

On  the  high  and  stormy  steep. 


LEILA. 
When  first  you  look  upon  her  face, 

You  little  note  beside 
The  timidness  that  still  betrays 

The  beauties  it  would  hide  : 
But  one  by  one,  they  look  out  from 

Her  blushes  and  her  eyes ; 
And  still  the  last  the  loveliest, 

Like  stars  from  twilight  skies. 


284  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

And  thoughts  go  sporting  through  her  mind, 

Like  children  among  flowers  ; 
And  deeds  of  gentle  goodness  are 

The  measure  of  her  hours. 
In  soul  or  face,  she  bears  no  trace 

Of  one  from  Eden  driven ; 
But,  like  the  rainbow,  seems,  though  born 

Of  earth,  a  part  of  heaven. 


LOVE   AND   REASON. 

Said  VENUS,  "  CUPID,  your  're  no  more 

A  child,  to  be  with  HEBE  fooling ; 
A  monkey  were  a  fitter  mate, 

'Tis  time  you  had  a  little  schooling. 
There  's  GANYMEDE,  a  boy  no  bigger 

Than  you  are — beat  him  if  you  can  ; 
He  sings  and  fiddles,  rhymes  and  riddles, 

In  short,  is  quite  the  gentleman. 

"  I  'm  getting  old  ;  lud,  how  these  fogs 

And  bleak  winds  of  Olympus  rack  us  ! 
MARS  ogles  less  than  he  was  wont, 

And  VULCAN  spends  his  nights  with  BACCHUS. 
To  leave  you  helpless  to  your  kin, 

Or  stepdame,  should  he  wed,  were  cruel ; 
I  'm  posed  to  think  how  you  '11  contrive, 

When  I  'm  defunct,  to  earn  your  gruel. 

"  I  'm  told  there  dwells  somewhere  about 

Parnass,  a  nymph,  hight  REASON,  famed 
For  brats,  like  you,  that  better  love 

Their  pastimes  than  their  books,  reclaimed ; 
For  fasting,  single  life  and  vigils  ; 

And,  what  will  better  serve,  as  you  know, 
To  make  you  mind  your  Greek  and  morals, 

She  's  ugly  as  that  vixen  JUNO. 

"  We  '11  put  you  with  her  for  a  month, 
A  week  for  prose,  and  three  for  rhyme  ; 


GEORGE     HILL. 

I  learned  to  pen  a  billet-doux, 

And  thrum  a  lute,  in  half  the  time. 

I  '11  straight  despatch  my  dove  to  tell  her 
You  '11  make  one  of  her  bookish  crew  ; 

So  take  your  wing,  but  leave  your  quiver, 
The  sight  of  it  might  fright  the  '  blue.' " 

He  went.     The  dame  was  busy  with 

Her  wonted  round  of  freakish  fancies ; 
At  length,  thought  she,  "  I  '11  go  and  see 

How  CUPID  with  the  nymph  advances." 
The  night  was  rough.     Said  VENUS,  "  Sure 

They  '11  not  be  out  this  stormy  weather : 
The  door  not  fast  ?  within  there,  ho  !  " 

REASON  and  LOVE  had  fled  together. 


285 


THE   BATTLE   OF   SAN   JACINTO. 

'T  is  done !  the  sword  is  once  more  sheathed, 

So  nobly  drawn  in  valor's  cause  ; 
And  Texas  sees  her  soil  bequeathed 

To  freeborn  men  and  equal  laws ; 
Bequeathed  by  those,  who,  whether  they 

As  victors  or  as  vanquished  fell, 
Have  left  a  deathless  memory, 

A  spirit  that  no  might  may  quell. 

The  monuments  of  freedom  are 

The  names  of  such ;  the  scroll  decays ; 
Nor  less  will  time  the  marble  spaft 

Where  fame  records  their  deeds  and  praise  : 
The  names  of  those  whose  swords  have  won- 

Redeemed  the  green  sod  where  they  lie — 
Transmitted  still  from  sire  to  son, 

From  heart  to  heart,  can  never  die. 

And  by  their  graves,  in  years  to  come, 
Where  firm  they  stood,  or  rushed  to  greet, 

With  shouts,  the  foeman's  trump  and  drum, 
He  never  more  shall  wind  or  beat, 


286  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Shall  dwell  a  race,  untaught  to  bow 
To  tyrant  power,  a  race  whose  hands 

Shall  bear  the  flag,  whose  free  folds  now 
In  triumph  float  to  other  lands. 

And  there  the  sire,  as  the  plough  turns 

Some  warlike  relic  from  the  sod, 
Whose  mould  the  battle-ranks  inurns, 

That  few,  but  fearless,  "  blood-shod  strode," 
Shall  from  it  shake  the  dust,  and  to 

The  stripling  turn  and  proudly  say 
"  Here  firm  we  stood,  there  fell  the  foe, 

On  Texas'  independence  day." 

Shout  for  the  yet  surviving  brave ! 

Weep  for  the  brave  who  bled  or  fell, 
Where  Texas'  green  savannas  wave, 

Her  hills  and  forests  proudly  swell ; 
For  HOUSTON  and  his  gallant  band, 

The  men  whose  blood  was  freely  shed, 
And  him  whose  cry,  as  from  his  hand 

The  death-blade  dropped,  was  "  Go  AHEAD  ! " 


TO  A  COIN  FOUND  ON  THE  PLAINS  OF  TROY. 

Thou  com  'st  in  such  a  questionable  shape 
That  I  will  speak  to  thee. '  HAMLET. 

And  thou  art  here,  about  whose  name  and  date 
'T  were  idle  e'en  to  hazard  a  conjecture  ; 

Perhaps,  when  Troy  was  in  her  palmy  state, 
Struck  to  cdfcimemorate  some  feat  of  HECTOR  ; 

Perhaps,  coeval  with  the  days  of  JUBAL, 

Graved  by  that  Cain  whose  cognomen  was  TUBAL. 

Were  thy  impress  and  legend  visible, 

Thou  might'st,  't  is  true,  prove  but,  when  all  is  said, 
A  button,  by  some  bush  from  SPON  or  GELL* 

Filched,  when  in  search  of  the  Scamander's  head  : 
As  't  is,  thou  may'st  have  borne  the  monogram 

Of  some  old  Sheik  anterior  to  HAM. 

*  The  travellers. 


GEORGE     HILL. 

Time-eaten  relic,  within  whose  dim  round 
The  memories  of  by-gone  ages  dwell, 

Like  shapes  sepulchral,  disinhumed,  and  bound 
Within  the  magic  ring  by  wizard  spell ! 

Thou  cabinet  of  shadowy  portraits,  glass 

Wherein  the  phantoms  of  dead  empires  pass  ! 

Rome,  Carthage,  Tyre,  those  war-ships  on  the  tide 
Of  time,  are  now  as  they  had  never  been ; 

Their  battle-ensigns,  that  had  earth  defied, 
Ages  ago  were  struck,  and  piecemeal  seen 

Into  its  dark,  Lethean  waves  to  drop ; 

While  thou,  a  bubble,  floatest  at  their  top. 

Thy  fellow-bubbles,  Caesars,  Caliphs,  Sophis, 

Kings,  Consuls,  Tribunes,  Moguls,  Magis,  Sages, 

All  who  have  left  to  dust  their  bones  and  trophies, 
And  names — where  not  misspelt — to  after  ages, 

The  lions,  ne  plus  ultras  of  their  day, 

The  marvels,  Trismegisti — where  are  they  ? 

W^here  was  thy  birth-place,  thy  primeval  bed  ? 

Did  KafT  infold  thee  in  his  rocky  vest  ? 
Or  wast  thou  shaken  by  the  thunder's  tread 

From  Gebel  Tar,*  a  jewel  from  his  crest, 
Tried  in  some  now  extinct  volcano's  fire  ? 
Or  brought  from  Ophir,  in  a  ship  of  Tyre  ? 

What  transmigrations  hast  thou  undergone, 

As  coin,  ring,  bracelet,  buckle,  broach,  or  chalice  1 

How  oft  been  cheaply  lost  or  dearly  won  : 
Yet  still  a  welcome  guest  in  hut  or  palace  ? 

For  doubtless  thou  hast  travelled  long  and  far, 

Ere  rags  were  cashed  or  promises  at  par. 

Thou  may'st,  when  Sodom  was  destroyed  by  fire, 
Have  melted  from  the  ear  of  some  rich  beauty ; 

Or,  as  a  string  to  Theban  Memnon's  lyre, 
Or  royal  NIMROD'S  hunting  bow,  done  duty; 

Or,  brought  at  AARON'S  bidding,  helped  to  mould 

The  statue  of  a  god,  the  calf  of  gold. 

*  Gibraltar. 


288 


POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 


Thou  may'st,  with  CADMUS  into  Greece  have  come, 
Or  been  a  link  in  C  EC  HOP'S  coat  of  mail ; 

ULYSSES  may  have  filched  thee  from  his  chum  ; 
Or  HOMER  pawned  thee  for  a  pot  of  ale, 

Whose  epic  rhapsody  too  much  of  slaughter 

Smacks,  to  have  been  a  nurseling  of  cold  water. 

Or  was  Troy  but,  as  some  deem  is  proved  fully, 
A  dream  1  the  tumulus  before  my  eye, 

Not  heaped  o'er  AJAX,  but  some  other  bully? 
HELEN'S  abduction,  an  egregious  lie  ? 

The  Iliad's  hero,  a  fictitious  person, 

In  short,  the  writer  a  mere  Greek  Macpherson? 

Would  thou  hadst  ears,  speech,  intellect !  as  't  is, 
I  lock  thee  in  my  scrutiore  ;  there  to  sleep 

Till  classed,  a  theme  for  erudite  surmise 

And  sage  research,  beyond  the  western  deep, 

With  skeletons  of  mammoths,  mermaids,  mummies, 

Brickbats  from  Babylon,  and  other  dummies. 


THE   MARINER'S   ADIEU. 

Our  pennant  glitters  in  the  breeze, 

And  merry  men  are  we  ; 
Where  wind  may  blow,  or  billow  flow, 

No  limits  to  the  free  ! 
No  limits  to  the  free,  my  boys  ! 

As  now  'twixt  sea  and  sky, 
The  white  wave  curling  in  her  wake, 

Our  good  ship  seems  to  fly. 

One  mute  farewell,  one  look,  as,  where 

The  blue  sky  meets  the  foam ; 
Headland  and  isle  fast  fade  the  while, 

Then  proudly  greet  our  home  ! 
Then  proudly  greet  our  home,  my  boys ! 

My  merry  men  and  true  ! 
Where  wind  may  roam,  or  billow  foam, 

Our  native  land,  adieu ! 


EDWARD    A.    M    LAUGHLIN. 


289 


EDWARD    A.    M'LAUGHLIN. 


[Born  1798.] 

EDWARD  A.  M'LAUGHLIN  is  a  native  of  North  Stamford,  where 
he  was  born  on  the  9th  of  January,  1798.  The  pecuniary  circum 
stances  of  his  father  limited  his  education  ;  and  from  his  early  child 
hood  his  life  has  been  a  scene  of  almost  constant  vicissitude  and 
adventure.  After  several  changes  of  residence,  his  father  having 
removed  to  the  city  of  New  York,  he  was  placed  under  the  charge 
of  his  grandfather,  the  Rev.  AMZI  LEWIS,  pastor  of  the  Congrega 
tional  Church  of  North  Stamford;  and,  after  making  a  fruitless 
attempt  at  escaping  from  home  to  join  the  army,  then  engaged  in  the 
war  with  England,  in  the  sixteenth  year  of  his  age,  he  was  appren 
ticed  to  the  printing  business  in  the  town  of  Bridgeport.  On 
attaining  his  majority,  in  1819,  he  enlisted  in  the  6th  regiment  of 
Infantry,  which  was  ordered  shortly  afterward  to  proceed  on  the 
Missouri  Expedition,  a  march  of  more  than  two  thousand  miles. 
On  the  reduction  of  the  army,  in  1821,  he  received  his  discharge  at 
Belle  Fontaine,  and  for  some  months  worked  at  his  trade  at  St. 
Louis.  He  returned  to  the  east,  but  finding  the  atmosphere  of  a 
printing  office  little  suited  to  unfortunate  habits  which  an  army  resi 
dence  had  induced,  in  less  than  a  year  he  enlisted  in  the  marine 
corps.  After  serving  about  the  period  of  two  years,  a  discharge  was 
obtained  by  his  father,  and  for  a  time  he  was  content  to  pursue,  with 
various  success,  his  former  avocation. 

In  March,  1827,  M'LAUGHLIN  again  resolved  on  a  roving  life,  and 
shipped  on  board  the  La  Plata  frigate,  bound  for  Carthagena,  in  the 
Republic  of  Colombia.  He  reached  that  port  in  June,  and  shortly 
afterward  was  impressed  in  the  Patriot  service.  Through  the 
exertions  of  GEORGE  WATTS,  Esq.,  the  British  Consul  for  that 
Republic,  he  was  released,  and  returned  to  the  United  States.  For 
a  while,  he  was  connected  with  the  navy  yard  at  Norfolk,  in  the 
capacity  of  clerk,  where  his  father  was  stationed  as  Chaplain,  but  in 
a  short  time  he  enlisted  again  in  the  marine  service.  At  the  expira 
tion  of  two  years  he  was  sent  home  from  the  Hudson  frigate,  on  the 
Brazil  station,  and  was  discharged  at  Washington,  being  incapaci 
tated  by  ill  health  from  any  further  immediate  duty.  Subsequently, 
Mr.  M'LAUGHLIN  pursued  his  trade  at  Cincinnati,  in  Ohio,  for  several 
years,  and  at  present  resides  in  the  city  of  New  York,  engaged  in  the 
same  occupation.  His  irregular  habits  have  been  happily  reformed, 


290  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

and  the  dictates  of  sober  judgment — too  long  disregarded — are  now 
conferring  a  late  happiness,  which  the  impulses  of  a  wild  and  reckless 
fancy  failed  to  impart. 

The  poetical  writings  of  Mr.  M'LAUGHLIN  have  been  numerous. 
He  published  verses  at  sixteen  years  of  age,  and  has  persevered  in 
his  compositions  through  every  discouragement,  until  the  present 
time.  During  his  residence  at  Cincinnati,  he  devoted  his  leisure  to 
a  long  poem,  and  in  1841,  appeared  in  that  city  "  The  Lovers  of  the 
Deep,  together  with  several  miscellaneous  poems." 

"The  Lovers  of  the  Deep"  is  in  Spenserian  verse,  and  consists  of 
four  cantos,  comprising  several  thousand  lines.  It  is  founded  on  an 
incident  connected  with  the  wreck  of  the  unfortunate  steamer, 
Pulaski.  The  hero  and  heroine — the  Lovers  of  the  Deep — are  no 
other  than  the  twain  whom  the  reader  may  remember  to  have 
outlived,  upon  that  occasion,  the  perils  of  the  sea,  and  to  have  united 
their  fortunes,  as  a  common  affliction  had  already  done  their  hearts, 
at  the  altar.  The  poem  exhibits  a  good  command  of  language,  and 
good  descriptive  talent ;  and,  viewed  as  the  production  of  one  who 
has  been  denied  the  usual  advantages  of  even  a  common  education, 
is  deserving  of  much  encomium. 


THE   GALE.* 

The  gale  came  slowly  on,  rippling  the  sea 
With  flickering  winds,  that  veered  the  compass  round, 
Till  at  north-east  it  settled  steadily, 
And  blew  with  murmuring  and  hollow  sound, 
Still  gathering  strength  from  all  the  circle  round, 
To  scourge  the  ocean  in  its  maniac  rage, 
And  rouse  the  fury  of  the  deep  profound : 
The  war  begins — the  elements  engage, 

And  all  against  the  ship  vindictive  battle  wage. 
The  captain  gives  command  to  shorten  sail : 
"  Topmen,  aloft !  away  there,  no  delay ! 
Clew  up  the  courses,  and  the  spanker  brail, 
Luff  to  the  wind,  and  lower  the  yards  away ! 
Close  reef  the  topsails — hoist — sheet  home — belay  ; 
The  royals  and  to'-gallants  send  below — 
The  head-sheets  stow,  within  the  booms  convey — 
Set  the  storm  staysails  fore  and  aft !  " — The  blow 

Has  struck  the  ship  prepared  : — "  Up  helm  and  let  her  go ! 

*  From  the  first  canto  of  "  The  Lovers  of  the  Deep." 


EDWARD  A.  M'LAUGHLIN.  291 

She  sinks,  she  rises  on  the  swelling  surge, 
Scenes  of  wild  horror  meet  the  landsman's  view  ; 
The  raging  billows  seem  to  roar  her  dirge, 
She  leaps,  she  flies — the  flying  winds  pursue  : 
Sea  following  sea  breaks  over  her — the  crew, 
Lashed  to  the  rigging,  scarce  their  hold  sustain, 
Yet  only  dread  the  vessel's  broaching  to  : 
Should  the  strained  wheel-ropes  part,  all  hope  is  vain, 
Full  well  I  know  her  fate — she  founders  on  the  main. 

For  I  have  rode  upon  the  mountain  wave, 
Upreared  by  the  tempestous  howling  blast, 
When  terror  ruled  the  deep,  and  many  a  grave, 
Dug  by  the  warring  elements,  aghast 
Yawned  o'er  the  waters  ;  and  the  trembling  mast 
Bent  to  the  charging  winds — while  to  the  roar 
Of  ocean  in  his  wrath,  like  an  outcast, 
The  frightened  vessel  reeled  the  billows  o'er, 
Drowned  in  the  foaming  surge,  three  hundred  leagues  from 
shore. 

Eight  hours  she  struggled  through  the  doubtful  strife, 
Laboring  in  very  helplessness  of  wo  : 
Her  living  freight  were  anxious  but  for  life, 
For  life  would  each  the  wealth  of  earth  forego. 
Fame,  station,  rank — all  honors  here  below, 
Men  prize,  were  less  than  nothing  in  that  hour, 
When  danger,  triple-winged,  rode  to  and  fro — 
When  death  was  hovering,  eager  to  devour, 
And  scarce  one  ray  of  hope  was  left  the  bosom's  dower. 

The  clouds  their  watery  burthens  poured  amain, 
In  rushing  cataracts  that  deluged  ocean  ; 
The  whirlwinds  rode  upon  the  maddened  main, 
That  heaved  and  struggled  in  the  dread  commotion : 
Fire,  water,  air — three  elements  in  motion, 
In  triple  battle  joined  with  onset  dire  ; 
The  forked  lightnings  charged  the  deep's  proportion 
From  heaven's  high  battlements,  and,  flashing  ire, 
Tore  up  the  groaning  surge,  and  swathed  the  sea  in  fire. 


292  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

And  now  men  prayed  that  never  prayed  before, 
Nor  bent  the  knee  to  heaven's  Almighty  King, 
Who  bids  the  ocean  hush,  or  bids  it  roar, 
And  binds  the  tempest,  or  unchains  its  wing. 
Careless  or  mad,  they  throw  away  the  spring 
Of  life,  when  innocence  buds  on  the  brow, 
And  the  young  heart  is  just  prepared  to  cling 
To  truth  or  error,  as  the  will  doth  bow : 
They  yield  their  strength  to  vice,  and  virtue  disavow. 

But  when  the  sudden  danger,  downward  sped, 
Comes  rushing  like  a  thunderbolt  to  earth, 
When  the  proud  spirit  faints,  when  hope  is  fled, 
And  groans  and  sighs  becloud  the  soul  of  mirth  ; 
Then  they  can  kneel,  and  pray,  as  prayer  were  worth 
Ten  thousand  worlds  in  pristine  beauty  drest : 
But  will  that  prayer  avail  which  is  the  birth 
Of  guilty  fear  ?     Will  GOD  be  thus  confest, 
Whose   name   they  have  blasphemed — his  goodness  never 
blest  ? 

There  is  a  path,  which,  taken  in  life's  prime, 
Leads  to  a  valley  of  fair  fruits  and  flowers ; 
That  path  is  narrow  at  the  birth  of  Time, 
But  gently  widens  with  increasing  hours, 
And  lovelier  grows,  as  we  approach  the  bowers 
That  bloom  perennial  there,  bright  and  serene, 
Exhaling  living  fragrance  beneath  showers 
Of  grace,  that  fall  from  heaven  :  that  path  I  ween, 
Is  Virtue  ;  and  the  vale,  where  Happiness  is  seen. 

Who  reaches  those  fair  bowers,  shall  never  feel 
The  sting  of  conscience — the  upbraiding  soul ; 
But  peace  upon  his  heart  shall  set  her  seal, 
And  hold  each  wayward  passion  in  control  ; 
Though  lightnings  flash,  and  bellowing  thunders  roll, 
And  warring  elements  meet  in  the  shock 
Of  struggling  nature,  and  convulse  the  pole  ; 
No  guilty  horrors  at  his  breast  shall  knock, 
Pure  as  the  unclouded  stone — the  white  unblemished  rock. 


Now  hung  the  ship  upon  the  mountain  wave, 
That  heaved  its  apex  midway  to  the  sky ; 
Now  downward  prone,  sinks  in  a  yawning  grave, 
And  in  the  dark  and  deep  abyss  doth  lie : 
The  surges  rear  their  white-capped  heads  on  high, 
Above  the  topsail-yard ;  while  in  her  wake 
Rolls  a  huge  billow  close  astern — well  nigh 
Upon  the  decks  its  fearful  force  to  break, 
And  ship,  and  crew,  and  all,  whelm  in  the  unfathomed  lake. 

Oh,  for  the  blessed  land  once  more  to  tread  ! 
The  veriest  waste  beneath  the  burning  Line, 
Zaharah's  desert,  where  no  shadows  spread, 
Nor  ever  falls  the  grateful  shower  benign — 
The  shores  where  Nova  Zembla  sleeps  supine, 
Locked  in  eternal  Winter's  cold  embrace ; 
Siberia's  prison  hills,  where  men  resign 
All  hope — earth's  most  inhospitable  place 
Were  paradise,  compared  with  ocean's  troubled  space ! 

The  spirit  yearns  in  agony  of  thought, 
Toward  nature's  vernal  walks  far  o'er  the  sea, 
With  many  a  grateful  recollection  fraught 
Of  home's  dear  ties  and  pleasant  scenery  ; 
The  verdant  lawn,  the  grove,  the  flowery  lea, 
The  blooming  vale,  the  sweet  romantic  dell, 
The  hills  of  green,  the  forest's  panoply, 
The  murmuring  rill,  the  friends  beloved  so  well 
Flash  on  the  aching  heart,  and  rouse  the  bosom's  swell. 


'T  is  past — the  elemental  strife  is  o'er, 
The  broken  clouds  in  fleecy  volumes  lay ; 
The  torrents  cease,  the  winds  impel  no  more, 
The  sea  subsides  in  gentle  swells  away  ; 
Around  the  ship  the  gilded  dolphins  play, 
The  sea-born  nautilus  expands  his  sail, 
Streams  o'er  the  wave  bright  Sol's  uncurtained  ray, 
Soft  breezes  from  the  western  shores  prevail, 
And  sky  and  ocean  smile  as  dies  the  morning  gale. 


294  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

THE    WRECK.* 

Hark !  From  the  sullen  deep  a  fearful  roar, 
That  dies  away  where  Echo  ne'er  replies ! 
Hot,  vapory  clouds,  wreathe  the  tall  vessel  o'er, 

j       And  like  a  midnight  fog  obscure  the  skies ! 

(       The  ship's  a  wreck ! — In  scattered  fragments  lies, 
A  total  wreck  upon  the  combing  swell ! 
The  red  flues  have  collapsed — dread  ruin  flies, 
Swift  as  the  desolating  bolt,  that  fell 
On  that  ill-fated  boat — the  lost,  the  mourned  Moselle ! 

A  moment  past,  and  the  proud  ship  was  gliding 
Like  a  swift  dolphin,  through  the  yielding  seas  : 
A  moment  past,  and  beauty,  all  confiding, 
Smiling  like  HEBE,  and  intent  to  please, 
Poured  her  sweet  voice  upon  the  passing  breeze  : 
Where  are  they  now — the  beautiful,  the  brave, 
The  staid,  the  gay — so  late  in  health  and  ease  ? 
Some  in  their  berths  below  have  found  a  grave  ! 
Some  float  upon  the  sea — some  struggle  down  the  wave  ! 

Oh,  what  a  cry  of  woe  burst  from  the  deep  ! 
What  shrieks  of  terror  pierced  the  vaulted  sky! 
What  icy  chills  around  each  heart  did  creep — 
What  black  despair  gleamed  from  each  straining  eye ! 
Some,  flayed  alive,  upon  the  waters  lie, 
And  writhe  and  groan  in  agony  of  pain ! 
Oh,  it  were  mercy  yielded  them  to  die, 
And  sink  at  once  beneath  the  troubled  main ; 
For  life  is  misery — death  is  the  wretch's  gain ! 

The  ship's  a  wreck ! — Dismantled  to  her  hull, — 
Her  decks  blown  off,  and  drifting  o'er  the  tide ; 
Around  the  sinking  hulk  the  sea  is  full 
Of  shattered  spar  and  plank,  hurled  far  and  wide  ; 
The  dying  and  the  dead  float  side  by  side, 
Upon  the  gloomy  wave  tossed  to  and  fro  ! 
The  scalding  cloud  that  did  the  ruin  hide, 
Condenses,  mingling  with  the  surge  below, 
And  the  heart-rending  scene  unveils  in  all  its  woe ! 

*  From  the  third  canto  of  the  same. 


EDWARD    A.    M    LAUGH  LIN. 


295 


Some  shriek,  some  pray,  some  grapple  with  the  wreck, 
That,  slowly  sinking,  tends  the  deep  below ; 
Some  tear  their  hair,  and  in  life's  sudden  check 
Blaspheme  their  GOD,  and  every  hope  forego, 
Despairing,  in  the  extremity  of  woe  ! 
A  few,  resigned,  upon  the  waters  lie, 
And  gazing  upward,  with  a  dying  throe, 
Await  their  dissolution  drawing  nigh — 
Their  thoughts  transferred  to  realms  beyond  the  moon-lit  sky  ! 

Here  struggle  little  ones  upon  the  wave, 
And  pass  away  with  a  low,  dying  moan ! 
There  is  no  arm  the  innocents  to  save — 
There  is  no  ear  to  list  their  troubled  groan  ; 
But  angels  watch  their  gasping  forms  alone  ! 
Sweet  cherubs  !   early  meeting  nature's  doom, 
A  moment  more,  and  endless  bliss  your  own : 
Each  spirit  pure  shall  burst  its  watery  tomb, 
To  smile  at  GOD'S  right  hand,  in  everlasting  bloom! 

Husband  and  wife  upon  each  other  call, 
In  the  warm  accents  of  undying  love  : 
That  hallowed  love  which  has  survived  the  Fall, 
In  Eden  blest,  and  sanctified  above  ! 
Them,  faithful  unto  death,  HEAVEN  shall  approve, 
And  in  eternity  the  pair  restore, 
Crowned  with  immortal  amaranth  ;  to  rove 
The  heavenly  fields,  on  Beulah's  happy  shore, 
Where  hands  and  hearts  shall  re-unite,  to  part  no  more. 

The  drowning  boy  is  screaming  for  his  sire ; 
The  dying  girl  is  shrieking  for  her  mother  ! 
Locked  in  each  other's  arms  parents  expire, 
And  in  the  close  embrace,  sister  and  brother  ! 
Lovers  and  friends  are  calling  on  each  other, 
Beauty  imploring  aid — but  all  in  vain  ! 
The  dashing  seas  the  cry  of  anguish  smother- 
Hearts  cease  to  beat,  and  voices  to  complain, 
And  Death  sits  paramount,  triumphant  on  the  main  ! 

Silence  is  on  the  deep  !  save  the  low  moan 
Of  the  dirge-chanting  wind  and  combing  swell ; 


296 


POETS    OF    CONNECTICUT. 


The  moon  shines  brightly  from  her  silver  zone, 
Kissing  the  wave  that  owns  her  potent  spell : 
For  the  lone  dead  there  tolls  no  funeral  bell ; 
Nor  hearse,  nor  pall,  nor  mourning  friends  appear ! 
The  affrighted  sea-bird  screams  their  passing  knell, 
Upon  whose  grave  no  flowers  the  spring  shall  rear, 
But  sea-weed  float  around,  to  deck  their  watery  bier. 

The  winds  shall  waft  this  ruin  o  er  the  wave, 
To  many  an  ear  upon  the  Western  shore  : 
Some  hearts  shall  break,  and  find  an  early  grave — 
Some  spirits  mourn,  and  their  sad  loss  deplore, 
Till  memory  fail,  or  life's  last  sob  is  o'er ! 
The  anxious  sire — the  trembling  wife,  shall  wait 
Vainly  their  coming,  who  are  now  no  more  ! 
Sire,  husband,  wife,  are  more  than  desolate — 
No  signal  of  the  ship — no  knowledge  of  her  fate  ! 

Hours,  days,  and  weeks  pass  wearily  away, 
Serenely  smile  the  skies — fair  winds  prevail : 
Oh  what  detains  the  ship  from  day  to  day, 
Urged  by  the  double  force  of  steam  and  sail ! 
The  sad  intelligence  comes  on  the  gale — 
Or  ever  hope  hath  left  the  yearning  breast — 
Like  a  red  thunderbolt!     The  cheek  turns  pale, 
Life's  purple  stream  retreats  to  its  last  rest, 
And  in  the  mighty  woe  the  mourners  sink  oppressed  ! 


THE  DELIVERANCE.* 

Rose  the  third  morn  on  wings  of  orient  light, 
And  heaven  suffused  with  purple  radiancy  ; 
The  etherial  essence,  showering  down  so  bright, 
Fell  on  the  billows,  and  all  gorgeously 
Wreathed  with  bright  amethyst  the  curling  sea ; 
The  surf-crowned  monarch  smiled  through  all  his  realm, 
And  shook  his  hoary  locks,  that  royally 
Swept  o'er  a  thousand  shores  :  while  many  a  helm 
Steers  through  subsiding  swells  that  rise  no  more  to  whelm. 

*  From  the  fourth  canto  of  the  same. 


EDWARD    A.    M   LAUGHLIN. 

Gently  the  wreck  has  neared  the  wished-for  shore — 
A  flowery  Isle  beneath  the  tropic  sky ; 
And  on  a  sea-green  wave  as  gently  bore, 
Upon  the  snowy  beach  doth  safely  lie  ; 
With  soothing  note  the  billows  murmur  by, 
As  they  were  fearful  to  awake  the  pair, 
Who  slumber  still ;  rocked  in  the  lullaby 
Of  ocean  to  forgetfulness  of  care, 
And  fanned  to  sleep  profound  by  spirits  of  the  air. 

Fair  was  the  isle,  mantled  in  verdant  green, 
And  all  diversified  with  hill  and  dale  ; 
Grove,  glen  and  sylvan  dell  adorned  the  scene, 
And  tumbling  cascades  misting  to  the  gale, 
In  silver  streams  wound  through  each  blooming  vale  ; 
A  thousand  flowers  their  painted  cups  expand, 
While  Zephyr  stoops  the  sweetness  to  inhale, 
And  bears  away  at  morning's  bright  command, 
To  winnow  fragrance  round  this  seeming  fairy  land. 

Unnumbered  birds  in  brilliant  plumage  dressed, 
Carmine,  and  purple,  azure,  green  and  gold ; 
Some  on  the  wing,  some  on  the  flowers  at  rest, 
Or  in  the  grove  disporting  uncontrolled, 
Made  vocal  all  the  isle,  with  notes  that  rolled 
From  living  pipes  of  sweetest  melody, 
And  carolled  to  the  morn ;  while  Echo  told 
The  music  in  a  softer  euphony, 
And  sent  the  dulcet  strain  to  die  upon  the  sea. 

Umbrageous  groves  of  the  tall  spreading  palm, 
Rose  from  the  vales  ;  the  sloping  hills  were  crowned 
With  lofty  cocoa-nut,  and  flowering  balm  ; 
While  the  sweet-scented  orange  scattered  round, 
Perfumed  the  flying  winds  ;  shadowed  the  ground, 
The  lemon-tree,  pomegranate,  fig,  and  vine, 
Whose  fibrous  arms  the  blushing  date  tree  bound, 
Pendent  with  purple  clusters  ;  PROSERPINE 
Blooms  with  VERTUMNUS  here,  and  arm  in  arm  they  twine. 


Arbor  and  grotto  shaped  by  Nature's  hand, 
In  grove,  in  glen,  or  base  of  verdant  hills, 
Where  crystal  springs,  whose  waters  sweet  and  bland, 
Serenely  flowed,  or  fell  in  murmuring  rills, 
Formed  cool  retreats,  where  humid  air  distils 
The  unconscious  shower,  and  blooming  shrubbery 
Invites  with  honeyed  cups  the  slender  bills 
Of  tuneful  humming-birds  ;  whose  plumery 
Glitters  upon  the  light,  and  sparkles  o'er  the  lea. 

Such  was  the  isle,  in  blissful  beauty  dressed, 
On  which  the  Heavens  my  shipwrecked  lovers  threw ; 
Where  Hope  sat  throned  upon  the  morning's  crest, 
And  smiled  beneath  the  veil  that  evening  drew  ; 
O'er  hill,  through  vale,  delight  for  ever  flew  ; 
Now  kissed  the  flowers,  now  rustled  through  the  grove, 
Where  winged  pairs  their  callow  nestlings  view, 
And  warble  melody  through  the  alcove  ; 
While  Zephyr  fans  the  air,  and  all  is  peace  and  love. 

Awake,  fond  pair !    The  charming  tropic  dawn 
Has  kissed  the  islands  of  the  hoary  deep, 
Lit  up  the  pearly  drops  that  strew  the  lawn, 
And  the  unfolding  flowers  no  longer  sleep  ; 
Aurora  wakes  the  morn — wake  ye,  and  weep 
With  her  the  tears  of  joy,  safe  from  the  roar 
Of  the  dread  billows,  where  the  mild  winds  sweep 
Their  crystal  trains  along  the  verdant  shore, 
That  smiles  within  the  reefs,  at  Ocean's  rude  uproar. 

Awake  !  and  view  the  blooming  fairy  land, 
The  fragrant  bowers  of  safety  and  delight, 
The  ardent  wished-for  shore  ;  where,  hand  in  hand, 
Full  happy,  ye  may  tread  the  hills  so  bright, 
Secure  from  danger,  suffering  and  affright ; 
Where  radiant  flowers  o'er  verdant  valleys  glow, 
And  pendent  fruits  allure  the  ravished  sight, 
From  clustering  vine,  and  branches  bending  low, 
Beneath  whose  shadows  bland  the  limpid  fountains,, flow. 


PROSPER    MONTGOMERY    WETMORE. 


299 


PROSPER  MONTGOMERY  WETMORE. 

[Born  1799.] 

PROSPER  MONTGOMERY  WETMORE  was  born  at  Stratford,  in  1799. 
His  parents  removed,  when  he  was  quite  young,  to  the  city  of  New 
York,  where  he  has  since  resided.  His  early  instruction  was 
confined  to  the  simple  rudiments  of  a  common  English  education.  At 
nine  years  of  age  he  was  placed  as  a  clerk  in  a  counting-room,  where 
he  remained  until  he  attained  his  majority.  Shortly  afterward  he 
engaged  in  mercantile  business,  in  which  he  has  continued  until  the 
present  time. 

In  1833,  Mr.  WETMORE  was  appointed  by  the  Legislature  of  New 
York  one  of  the  Regents  of  the  University,  a  Board  to  whom  are 
confided  the  various  interests  of  Education  and  Literature  in  the 
State.  In  1834,  he  was  elected  to  the  Legislature,  from  the  city  of 
New  York,  and  was  re-elected  in  1835.  While  a  member  of  that 
body,  he  devoted  himself  ardently  to  the  public  interest.  He  intro 
duced  and  warmly  advocated  the  bill  to  establish  the  School  District 
Libraries,  and  had  the  satisfaction  to  see  it  become  a  law ;  and  dis 
tinguished  himself  also  by  the  zealous  promotion  of  various  other 
measures  of  utility  and  importance. 

For  several  years  Mr.  WETMORE  has  been  a  contributor  to  our 
periodical  literature.  In  1816,  his  verse  first  appeared  in  print,  and 
some  of  his  effusions  have  been  exceedingly  popular.  In  1830, 
appeared  in  New  York,  a  volume  entitled  "  Lexington,  and  other 
Fugitive  Poems."  In  1832,  he  delivered,  by  invitation,  before  the 
"Phoenix  Society,"  of  Hamilton  College,  at  Clinton,  in  New  York,  a 
poem  in  Spenserian  verse,  entitled  "  Ambition."  Its  publication  was 
requested  by  the  Society,  but  declined  by  the  author,  as  he  had  not 
found  opportunity  to  introduce  all  the  illustrations  he  desired,  nor  has 
it  since  been  given  to  the  public.  In  1838,  he  edited  a  remarkable 
volume  of  poems  by  JAMES  NACK,  a  deaf  and  dumb  person,  to  which 
he  prefaced  a  brief  biographical  notice. 

The  poems  of  our  author,  while  they  evidently  aim  at  no  very 
elevated  character,  are  not  wanting  in  grace  and  beauty,  and  at  times 
present  passages  highly  spirited  and  stirring ;  "  Lexington,"  aside 
from  its  patriotic  character,  which  must  commend  it  to  all  American 
readers,  is  a  superior  poem,  which  will  not  be  easily  forgotten. 


300  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 


LEXINGTON. 

'T  was  calm  at  eve  as  childhood's  sleep, 

The  seraph-rest  that  knows  not  care — 
Still  as  the  slumbering  summer-deep, 

When  the  blue  heaven  lies  dream-like  there  ; 
Blending  with  thoughts  of  that  azure  steep,     . 

The  bright,  the  beautiful  and  fair ; 
Like  hopes  that  win  from  heaven  their  hue, 
As  fair,  as  fleeting,  and  as  few, 
Those  tranquil  Eden-moments  flew  : 
The  morn  beheld  the  battle  strife — 
The  blow  for  blow — the  life  for  life — 

The  deed  of  daring  done — 
The  Rubicon  of  doubt  was  past, 

An  empire  lost,  a  birth-right  won  ; 
When  Freedom's  banner  braved  the  blast, 
Flashing  its  splendors  far  and  fast 

From  crimsoned  Lexington ! 

There  was  a  fearful  gathering  seen 

On  that  eventful  day, 
And  men  were  there  who  ne'er  had  been 

The  movers  in  a  fray  ; 
The  peaceful  and  the  silent  came 

With  darkling  brows,  and  flashing  eyes  ; 
And  breasts  that  knew  not  glory's  flame, 

Burned  for  the  patriot-sacrifice  ! 
No  pomp  of  march — no  proud  array — 

There  spake  no  trumpet  sound — 
But  they  pressed,  when  the  morn  broke  dim  and  gray, 

Dauntless,  that  conflict-ground ; 
Sadly,  as  if  some  tie  were  broken, 

Firmly,  with  eye  and  lip  severe ; 
Dark  glances  passed,  and  words  were  spoken, 

As  men  will  look  and  speak  in  fear ; 
Yet  coursed  no  coward  blood, 
Where  that  lone  phalanx  stood 

Rock-like,  and  spirit-wrought ; 


A  strange,  unwonted  feeling  crept 
Through  every  breast ;  all  memories  slept, 
While  passion  there  a  vigil  kept 

O'er  one  consuming  thought : — 
To  live  a  fettered  slave, 
Or  fill  a  freeman's  grave ! 

Though  many  an  arm  hung  weaponless, 

The  clenched  fingers  spake  full  well 
The  stern  resolve,  the  fearlessness, 

That  danger  could  not  quell : 
Yet  some,  with  hasty  hand, 
The  rust-encumbered  brand 

Had  snatched  from  its  peaceful  sleep, 
And  held  it  now  with  a  grasp  that  told, 
A  freeman's  life  should  be  dearly  sold — 

'T  was  courage  stern  and  deep  ! 

Proudly,  as  conquerors  come 

From  a  field  their  arms  have  won, 
With  bugle  blast  and  beat  of  drum, 

The  Briton  host  came  on ! 
Their  banners  unfurled,  and  gaily  streaming, 
Their  burnished  arms  in  the  sun-light  gleaming : 

Fearless  of  peril,  with  valor  high, 
And  in  reckless  glee,  they  were  idly  dreaming 

Of  a  bloodless  triumph  nigh  : 
The  heavy  tread  of  the  war-horse  prancing — 
The  lightning-gleam  of  the  bayonets  glancing — 

Broke  on  the  ear,  and  flashed  on  the  eye, 
As  the  columned  foe  in  their  strength  advancing, 

Pealed  their  war-notes  to  the  echoing  sky ! 

'T  was  a  gallant  band  that  marshalled  there, 
With  the  dragon-flag  upborne  in  air ; 
For  England  gathered  then  her  pride, 

The  bravest  of  a  warrior  land — 
Names  to  heroic  deeds  allied, 

The  strong  of  heart  and  hand. 


302  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

They  came  in  their  panoplied  might, 

In  the  pride  of  their  chivalrous  name  ; 
For  music  to  them  were  the  sounds  of  the  fight — 

On  the  red  carnage-field  was  their  altar  of  fame  : 
They  came,  as  the  ocean-wave  comes  in  its  wrath, 

When  the  storm-spirit  frowns  on  the  deep  ; 
They  came,  as  the  mountain-wind  comes  on  its  path, 

When  the  tempest  hath  roused  it  from  sleep : 
They  were  met  as  the  rock  meets  the  wave, 

And  dashes  its  fury  to  air  ; 
They  were  met,  as  the  foe  should  be  met  by  the  brave, 

With  hearts  for  the  conflict,  but  not  for  despair  ! 


What  power  hath  stayed  that  wild  career  ? 
Not  Mercy's  voice,  nor  a  thrill  of  fear ; 
'T  is  the  dread  recoil  of  the  dooming  wave, 
Ere  it  sweeps  the  bark  to  its  yawning  grave  ; 
'T  is  the  fearful  hour  of  the  brooding  storm, 

Ere  the  lightning-bolt  hath  sped  ; 
The  shock  hath  come!  and  the  life-blood  warm, 

Congeals  on  the  breasts  of  the  dead! 
The  strife — the  taunt — the  death-cry  loud, 
Are  pealing  through  the  sulphurous  cloud, 

As,  hand  to  hand,  each  foe  engages  ; 
While  hearts  that  ne'er  to  monarch  bowed, 
And  belted  knights  to  the  combat  crowd — 

A  fearless  throng  the  contest  wages ; 
And  eye  to  eye,  the  meek — the  proud, 
Meet  darkly  'neath  the  battle  shroud — 

'T  is  the  feast  of  death  where  the  conflict  rages  ! 

Woe !  to  the  land  thou  tramplest  o'er, 

Death-dealing  fiend  of  war  ! 
Thy  battle  hoofs  are  dyed  in  gore, 

Red  havoc  drives  thy  car ; 
Woe  !  for  the  dark  and  desolate, 

Down  crushed  beneath  thy  tread  ; 
Thy  frown  hath  been  as  a  withering  fate, 

To  the  mourning  and  the  dead ! 


PROSPER    MONTGOMERY    WETMORE.  303 

Woe  !  for  the  pleasant  cottage-home, 

The  love-throng  at  the  door  ; 
Vainly  they  think  his  step  will  come : 

Their  cherished  comes  no  more ! 
Woe  !  for  the  broken-hearted, 

The  lone-one  by  the  hearth ; 
Woe  !  for  the  bliss  departed  : 

The  Pleiad  gone  from  earth ! 

Twas  a  day  of  changeful  fate, 

For  the  foe  of  the  bannered-line  ; 
And  the  host  that  came  at  morn  in  state, 

Were  a  broken  throng  ere  the  sun's  decline  ; 
And  many  a  warrior's  heart  was  cold, 

And  many  a  soaring  spirit  crushed, 
Where  the  crimson  tide  of  battle  rolled, 

And  the  avenging  legions  rushed. 

Wreaths  for  the  living  conqueror, 

And  glory's  meed  for  the  perished ! 
No  sculptor's  art  may  their  forms  restore, 

But  the  hero-names  are  cherished  ; 
When  voiced  on  the  wind  rose  the  patriot-call, 
They  gave  no  thought  to  the  gory  pall, 
But  pressed  to  the  fight  as  a  festival ! 
They  bared  them  to  the  sabre  stroke, 
Nor  quailed  an  eye  when  the  fury  broke ; 

They  fought  like  men  who  dared  to  die  ; 

For  freedom !  was  their  battle-cry, 
And  loud  it  rang  through  the  conflict  smoke  ! 

Up  with  a  nation's  banners !     They  fly 

With  an  eagle  flight, 
To  the  far  blue  sky ; 

'Tis  a  glorious  sight, 

As  they  float  abroad  in  the  azure  light, 
And  their  fame  shall  never  die  ! 

When  nations  search  their  brightest  page 
For  deeds  that  gild  the  olden  age, 
Shining  the  meteor-lights  of  story : 


England,  with  swelling  pride,  shall  hear 
Of  Cressy's  field,  and  old  Poictiers, 

And  deathless  Agincourt ; 
Fair  Gallia  point  with  a  kindling  eye 
To  the  days  of  her  belted  chivalry, 

And  her  gallant  Troubadour  ; 
Old  Scotia,  too,  with  joy  shall  turn 
Where  beams  the  fight  of  Bannockburn, 

And  Stirling's  field  of  glory ! 
Land  of  the  free !  though  young  in  fame, 
Earth  may  not  boast  a  nobler  name  : 
Plataea's  splendor  is  not  thine, 

Leuctra,  nor  Marathon ; 
Yet  look  where  lives  in  glory's  line, 

The  day  of  Lexington  ! 


GREECE. 

The  brave  heart's  Holy  Land. 

HALLECK. 

Land  of  the  pencil  and  the  lyre, 

The  marble  and  the  dome ! 
Whose  name  is  to  the  Muse  a  fire, 

Whose  temples  are  a  home  : 
Clime  of  a  wealth  uiibought ! 

Where  genius  long  enshrined 
His  treasury  of  thought, 

The  Peru  of  the  mind  f 

Land  of  that  unforgotten  few  ! 

The  breathing  rampart-rock 
That  towered  a  Pelion  to  the  view, 

When  burst  the  battle  shock  f 
Clime  of  the  fair  and  brave  ! 

When  will  the  tale  be  o'er, 
Of  warriors  in  their  grave, 

Of  maidens  in  their  gore  ! 


PROSPER    MONTGOMERY    WETMORE 

Land  of  the  fettered  slave ! 

Thy  bonds  shall  burst  asunder ; 
Freedom  is  on  the  wave, 

Hark  to  her  echoing  thunder ! 
The  red-cross  banner  gleaming, 
And  Gallia's  white  field  streaming, 
And  the  black  eagle  screaming, 

Sweep  o'er  the  ^Egean  sea ; 
The  Moslem  horde  is  shrinking, 
The  Crescent's  glory  sinking, 

And  the  land  of  song  is  free  ' 


305 


TWELVE  YEARS  HAVE  FLOWN. 

Twelve  years  have  flown,  since  last  I  saw 

My  birth-place,  and  my  home  of  youth ; 
How  oft  its  scenes  would  memory  draw 

Her  tints,  the  pencilings  of  truth ! 
Unto  that  spot  I  come  once  more, 

The  dearest  life  hath  ever  known, 
And  still  it  wears  the  look  it  wore, 

Although  twelve  weary  years  have  flown. 

Twelve  years  have  flown !  those  words  are  brief, 

Yet  in  their  sound  what  fancies  dwell! 
The  hours  of  bliss,  the  days  of  grief, 

The  joys  and  woes  remembered  well ; 
The  hopes  that  filled  the  youthful  breast, 

Alas,  how  many  a  one  o'erthrown ! 
Deep  thoughts,  that  long  have  been  at  rest, 

Wake  at  the  words,  twelve  years  have  gone ! 

The  past,  the  past !  a  saddening  thought, 

A  withering  spell,  is  in  the  sound ! 
It  comes  with  memories  deeply  fraught 

Of  youthful  pleasure's  giddy  round, 
Of  forms  that  roved  life's  sunniest  bowers, 

The  cherished  few  for  ever  gone, 
Of  dreams  that  filled  life's  morning  hours  ; 

Where  are  they  now?    Twelve  years  have  flown! 


306  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

."^X-'-^^^-'^w-^-^-'-^-^-'-^-^-V^1 /-N_^>-^'-^^-S_X>^-^_ 

A  brief,  but  eloquent  reply ! 

Where  are  youth's  hopes,  life's  morning  dream  ? 
Seek  for  the  flowers  that  floated  by 

Upon  the  rushing  mountain-stream ! 
Yet  gems  beneath  that  wave  may  sleep, 

Till  after  years  shall  make  them  known ; 
Thus  golden  thoughts  the  heart  will  keep, 

That  perish  not,  though  years  have  flown. 


SONG. 

Breathe  no  more  the  notes  of  sadness, 

Give  to  Pleasure  all  thy  strings, 
Gentle  harp,  thy  song  of  gladness 
O'er  our  souls  its  magic  flings. 
Where's  the  breast  with  sorrow  pining? 

Bring  the  pilgrim  to  our  shrine  ; 

Where  the  spirit's  light  is  shining, 

There's  the  Mecca  most  divine ! 

Then  breathe  no  more  the  notes  of 
Give  to  Pleasure  all  thy  strings  ; 
Gentle  harp,  thy  song  of  gladness 
O'er  our  soul  its  magic  flings. 


Here  no  brow  by  sorrow  shaded, 

Comes  to  mar  our  mirth  with  sighs ; 
Here  no  wreath  whose  flowers  have  faded, 

Meets  the  glance  of  sparkling  eyes. 
Seek  ye  Love,  the  bosom's  treasure  ? 

Here  he  plumes  his  keenest  dart : 
When  ye  list  the  witching  measure, 
Then  Love  plies  his  potent  art. 

Oh !  breathe  no  more  the  notes  of  sadness, 

Give  to  Pleasure  all  thy  strings ; 
Gentle  harp,  thy  note  of  gladness 
O'er  our  souls  its  magic  flings. 


DR.     WILLIAM     HENRY     BRADLEY. 


307 


WILLIAM    HENRY    BRADLEY,    M.  D. 

[Born  1802.    Died  1825.] 

WILLIAM  HENRY  BRADLEY,  son  of  Dr.  WILLIAM  BRADLEY,  now  a 
resident  of  Philadelphia,  was  born  in  Hartford,  on  the  24th  of  July, 
1802.  He  received  his  education  principally  in  Hartford  and 
Boston,  and  was  also  for  several  years  a  member  of  a  select  school, 
under  the  charge  of  GEORGE  HALL,  at  Medford,  near  Boston.  After 
completing  his  academic  course,  he  studied  medicine,  for  a  time,  at 
New  Haven,  with  the  late  Dr.  NATHAN  SMITH,  and  afterward  in 
Hartford,  and  in  Providence,  in  Rhode  Island.  In  the  autumn  of 
1824,  he  received  his  diploma,  and  in  January,  1825,  removed  to 
Havanna,  in  the  island  of  Cuba,  with  a  view  to  a  permanent  resi 
dence.  Here  he  commenced  the  practice  of  his  profession  under 
flattering  auspices,  but,  in  the  following  spring,  fell  a  victim  to  the 
Yellow  Fever,  so  common  in  that  climate,  and  so  generally  fatal 
to  foreigners. 

Dr.  BRADLEY  wrote  "  Giuseppino,  an  Occidental  Story,"  which 
was  published  in  1822  ;  and,  while  he  resided  in  Providence,  contri 
buted  many  fugitive  poems  to  the  newspapers  of  that  city.  He  was 
a  young  man  of  superior  mind  and  accomplishments ;  and  wrote  with 
vigor  and  wit. 


STORY-TELLING.* 
To  tell  good  stories  is  extremely  pleasant ; 

To  hear  or  read  them,  too,  is  quite  agreeable ; 
And,  from  the  courtier  downward  to  the  peasant, 

Tales  are  retailed  by  all.     You  '11  even  see  a  belle 
Or  dandy  thus  employed :  so  I,  at  present, 

If  DAN  APOLLO  will  but  render  me  able, 
Am  much  inclined  to  give  you  a  short  specimen 
Of  what  occurred  to  one  of  the  most  dressy  men. 

Authorship  now  is  an  improving  business, 
If  one  can  strike  out  matters  that  are  novel. 

Though  authors'  brains  will  often  get  a  dizziness, 
From  too  much  labor,  or  be  forced  to  grovel 

*  From  "  Giuseppino." 


308  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

In  plagiarisms,  undoubtedly  it  is  an  ease 

To  knock  out  rhyme  or  prose,  whether  a  hovel 
Or  palace  be  the  scene  of  the  disturbance 
Which  we  describe,  among  hats,  caps,  or  turbans. 

********* 

I  sate  me  down,  good  folk,  to  tell  a  story, 

Of  which,  I  own,  the  truth  might  be  suspected, 

Even  by  credulous  people  ;  and,  what 's  more,  I 
Freely  confess  I  cannot  recollect  it : 

But  yet  it  was  a  vision  of  such  glory 

I  scarcely  can  suppose  ye  would  reject  it : 

'T  was  all  about  a  lady  and  a  knight, 

Who  said  and  did — what  I  've  forgotten  quite. 

In  search  of  scenes  and  incidents  I  read 

Near  half  the  old  romances,  through  and  through, 

Which  SOUTHEY  has  brought  forward  from  the  dead, 
With  most  galvanic  labor  ;  and  anew, 

With  steel-clad  wights,  in  peril  was  I  led, 
Till  weary  of  their  toils  and  mine  I  grew : 

So  the  chief  knowledge  gathered  from  my  reading 

Is  what  I  '11  mention  as  we  are  proceeding. 

I  found  that  many  a  literary  chieftain, 

Had  culled  the  gems  from  out  this  antique  treasure ; 
That  what  they  left  was  by  each  humbler  thief  ta'en, 

To  put  in  some  new  fiction  at  his  leisure  ; 
I  found — but  guess  ! — no,  you  can  't  guess  my  grief  ta'en, 

At  finding — Oh,  presumption  beyond  measure  ! — 
That  collar-makers — I  can  scarce  get  farther 
Had  actually  collared  poor  king  ARTHUR. 

I  next  discovered,  that  the  folk  of  quality 
Had  not,  of  yore,  such  numerous  expedients 

To  kill  time  and  themselves,  as  the  plurality 
Of  modern  genteel  people.     The  ingredients 

With  which  they  sweetened  up  the  cold  reality 
Were  tourneys,  and  such  savage  kind  of  pageants, 

Wherein  legs,  arms,  and  neck,  oft  got  a  fracture, 

Although  of  the  most  giant  manufacture. 


Sad  was  the  situation  of  the  fair, 

Long,  while  a  BOLINGBROKE,  or  a  PLANTAGENET 
Was  king  in  London,  (a  great  lord  elsewhere,) 

When  one  short  week  had  stupor  for  an  age  in  it, 
To  "  ladies  gay,"  who  spent  the  livelong  year, 

Remote  from  town,  and  truly  would  imagine  it 
Extravagant  to  give,  in  their  own  halls, 
During  that  livelong  year,  one  dozen  balls. 

Then  was  the  ton,  indeed,  a  weighty  matter, 
Which  fancy  moved  but  every  hundred  years 

To  a  new  pressure  !     Then  a  lady,  at  her 

First  coining  out,  wore  the  same  woman's  gears 

WThich  she  wore  on,  (unless  she  grew  much  fatter,) 
Till  she  was  going  out ;  when  lo,  appears 

Her  daughter,  decked  in  the  same  antique  millinery, 

With  much  manslaughter  and  intent  to  kill  in  her  eye. 

'T  was  better  with  them,  as  historians  tell  us, 

In  bluff  King  HAL'S  reign,  and  some  time  before  him ; 

Though  wives  dared  seldom  flirt  with  civil  fellows, 
In  presence  of  their  husbands,  just  to  bore  'em. 

They  feared  to  make  the  horrid  creatures  jealous, 
And  females  were  taught  notions  of  decorum, 

Stiff  as  their  stomacher's  tight  elongation, 

Or  neck-cloths  of  this  stiff-necked  generation. 

Oh,  could  they  have  made  books  like  lady  M N, 

What  patch  work  had  we  seen  of  feudal  foolery, 

Each  lady's  head,  like  that  of  lady  GORGON, 
Had  left  us  hard  examples  of  their  drollery, 

And  we  had  known  the  centuries  afore-gone, 

From  banquet-hall  quite  downward  to  the  scullery ! 

Would  that  our  dear  ancestresses  had  been  crazy, 

Writh  some  diverting  kind  of  idiosyncrasy. 

I  bit  my  nails  and  pens,  and  then  besprent  all 
My  paper  o'er  with  ink,  in  thought  oppressed  ; 

Next,  I  resolved  to  write  an  Oriental 

Tale,  and  set  out  in  "  Travels  to  the  East," 


310  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Driving  away  all  notions  Occidental. 

I  formed  a  plot,  and  laid  the  scene,  at  last, 
'       Somewhere  between  Calcutta  and  Aleppo, 
When  I  bethought  me  of  my  old  friend  BEPPO. 

Then,  as  I  opened  wide  the  window-shutter, 
A  light  broke  in  on  me,  as  bright  as  sudden. 

Invention's  wings  began,  at  once,  to  flutter, 

(They  had  been  once  a  goose's,)  so,  by  WODEN, 

I  sate  down,  to  soar  far  from  dust  or  gutter, 

While  my  good  Genius  said,  "  Pray,  where 's  the  good  in 

Your  knack  at  rhyming,  if  its  versatility 

Can 't  afford  matter  for  our  risibility  ? 

"  The  Beppo  has  outdone  the  Epic  style  ; 

Most  modern  Epics  really  are  provoking 
To  sleep — and  therefore,  in  a  little  while, 

The  pack  hight  servum  pecus  shall  have  broken 
Into  full  cry ; — leave  your  heroic  toil, 

And  start  before  them,  till  you  have  your  book  in 
The  gripe  of  printer's  demons  ! " — on  this  hint 
I  wrote, — and  having  written,  came  to  print. 

But  how  to  make  a  story  ? — there  's  the  puzzle  ! 

Alack !  we  have  such  multitudes  to  tell  us 
Stories  on  stories,  both  of  those  that  guzzle 

At  Helicon,  and  plain  prosaic  fellows, 
That  no  one  soon  shall  find  a  nook  to  nuzzle 

In  fiction's  storehouse  : — fate  will  yet  compel  us 
To  be  mere  readers.     Oh  ye  geese  and  ganders, 
Your  wings  shall  cease  to  soar  where  Fancy  wanders ! 

And  here  I  humbly  hint  to  Dr.  BREWSTER, 

That  if  he  'd  make  us  a  kaleidoscope 
To  strike  new  subjects  out,  at  every  new  stir, 

'T  would  give  poor  authors  a  consoling  hope  ; 
For  though  the  Muses,  when  we  call  them,  do  stir, 

They  're  monstrous  indolent,  and  apt  to  mope. 
The  three  times  three,  of  late,  are  growing  slatterns, 
As  I  suppose,  for  want  of  good  new  patterns. 


DR.     WILLIAM     HENRY     BRADLEY. 

-^^-N_^N-^^-^-^-^_>'->wX-S-^^'-N-'-^^ 

I  '11  try  to  coax  one  of  them  now  a  little 

For  something  queer,  good  people,  to  revive  you. 

Some  tale  of  luckless  love  will  not  befit  ill 

Your  present  taste,  and  this  which  now  I  give  you 

Will,  without  question,  suit  you  to  a  tittle, 
If  ye  are  young  men,  and  intend  to  wive  you. 

Hear  then  the  history,  both  sad  and  funny, 

Of  one  who  fell  too  much  in  love — with  money. 

This  is  the  love  which  first  inflames  the  bosom, 
When  for  a  penny  some  dear  infant  screeches ; 

This  is  the  love  which  constantly  pursues  'em, 
When  fellows  have  got  into  coat  and  breeches, 

And  sigh  for  guineas,- — then  sigh  for  a  new  sum. 
This  lasting  passion  to  all  bosoms  reaches, 

Strengthened  by  age's  weakness  : — all  love  sham  is, 

Compared  with  this  same  "  auri  sacra  fames" 

But  hold  : — I  feel  myself  too  serious  now, 

And  must  betake  me  once  more  to  my  bantering, 

Telling  a  tale,  according  to  my  vow, 
In  brisk  ottava  rima,  freely  sauntering 

After  sweet  speculations,  high  and  low ; 
Or,  if  I  may,  in  a  fine  frenzy  cantering 

On  reinless  Pegasus,  athwart  whose  saddle 

So  many  Gilpins  have  now  got  a-straddle. 


311 


NAPOLEON. 

Say,  did  the  stars  desert  the  vault  of  heaven, 
The  sun  fall  rayless,  or  the  cold  round  moon 
Stand  still  o'er  Ajalon,  when  Death  struck  down 
That  arm  which  awed  the  nations  ?  when  he  fell 
Whose  frown  annihilated  courts,  whose  smile 
Upreared  at  once  both  kingdoms  and  their  kings  1 
He,  who  to  thrones  self-elevated,  made 
The  monster  god,  Hereditary  Power, 
Grow  pale,  and  tremble  in  his  own  domains ; 
And  England's  king  press  closer  to  his  brow 
The  round  of  royalty,  and  grasp  more  firm 


312  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

s^^^^-^-^-t^-r^^r-^-^^^^s-^-^^ 

His  island-sceptre  ?     Did  the  ocean  move 

Its  multitude  of  waves,  or  sympathy 

Stir  up  the  deep  volcanoes  of  the  earth  ? 

He  died  unmourned ;  and  Nature,  who  had  tasked 

Her  utmost  energy  for  one  great  birth, 

Had  done  her  mightiest  to  outdo  all  names, 

Eclipse  all  former  brightness,  and  astound 

The  muse  of  History  with  heroic  deeds, 

Looked  calmly  on  Death's  proudest  victory. 

Mightiest  of  monarchs  and  of  statesmen !  thou, 
Whose  ashes  kings  may  fear  to  tread  upon, 
Lest,  Phoenix-like,  that  spirit  should  arise 
From  the  cold  scattering  embers,  and  again 
Resume  the  crown,  the  sceptre  and  the  sword, 
From  the  first  rolling  of  thy  chariot  wheels 
Even  to  their  last  revolving — wonderful ! 
When  France  grew  faint  in  her  fast-flowing  blood, 
And  fierce  Dissension  with  her  thousand  tongues 
Was  heard  in  every  wind,  thy  fortune  grew 
Like  a  strong  oak,  and  its  deep-stricken  roots 
Were  nourished  with  thy  country's  blood  and  tears ; 
Till  grown  to  height  majestic,  and  out-spread, 
It  shook  the  tempest  from  its  vigorous  arms, 
And  dared  the  lightning ;  but  the  lightning  fell 
With  one  explosive  burst,  and,  scattered  round, 
Lay  thy  regalia ;  to  the  cardinal  wind 
Thy  power  departed  for  a  time,  and  thou, 
To  the  dominion  of  one  narrow  isle. 

The  shores  of  Elba  and  its  iron  hills 
Became  thy  royal  dwelling ;  but  in  vain 
The  waters  heaved  around  thee,  and  in  vain 
The  cross  of  England  streamed  upon  the  winds. 
The  chains  that  should  confine  thee  were  too  large 
For  kingly  hands  to  bend  so  readily ; 
Nor  was  it  strength  of  these  that  brought  thee  low  ; 
The  power  of  man  alone — the  elements, 
Which  thou  hadst  braved,  became  thy  vanquishers  ; 
Frost,  famine,  fire,  the  cannon  and  the  sword 
Conspired- against  thee — and  at  length  o'erthrew  ; 


DR.     WILLIAM     HENRY     BRADLEY.  313 

But  not  to  dwell  a  sceptred  prisoner, 

In  mockery  of  thy  once  imperial  state  ! 

No,  in  a  moment  that  was  thought  not  of, 

Secret  as  night,  unseen  and  silently, 

Thine  eagles  swept  the  waters,  and  displayed 

Again  o'er  France  their  bright  imperial  plumes, 

And  shook  high  triumph  from  their  rushing  wings. 

Armies  were  startled,  and  their  monarchs,  seized 

With  wild  amaze,  clung  trembling  to  their  thrones, 

For  still  thine  eagles,  soaring  into  heaven, 

Looked  down  upon  the  nations,  and  foredoomed 

To  bondage  their  resuscitated  kings. 

But  Fate  withdrew  the  glittering  thunderbolts, 

From  their  fast-clenching  talons,  and  struck  out 

The  fire  from  their  irradiated  eyes  ; 

Dismay  now  fastened  on  their  ruffled  plumes, 

And  they  fell  earthward — never  to  remount. 

Thou  self-delivered  captive — self-betrayed ! 
Hadst  thou  not  ventured  to  the  lion's  den, 
Heedless,  to  tempt  him  with  the  very  prey, 
Most  apt  to  whet  his  angry  appetite, 
Thou  still  hadst  been  alive — thyself  a  King ! 
Let  free  Britannia  plunge  her  face  in  earth, 
Or  hide  her  shame  behind  the  mountain-surge, 
For,  with  a  devil's  mockery,  she  slipped 
Her  fetters  on  the  proffered  hand  of  peace, 
And  snapped  the  lock ;  with  agitated  voice 
Heard  far  and  wide  upon  the  sea,  she  called 
To  stern  Captivity,  where  then  he  dwelt 
Among  the  islands,  to  prepare  the  rock 
With  the  fixed  rivet  of  his  heaviest  chain, 
And  fill  his  bitterest  cup  for  royal  lips. 
Then  to  the  barren  and  surf-beaten  isle 
She  led  her  royal  captive  ;  not  as  once — 
Clothed  in  the  splendor  of  Power's  purple  robe, 
But  crownless,  throneless,  sceptreless,  bereft 
Of  every  outward,  princely  attribute. 

If  mid  the  pomp  of  thine  imperial  power, 
In  the  proud  flush  of  splendor  and  success, 


314  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Some  unseen  hand  had  written  on  the  heavens — 

"  Thy  days  are  numbered ;  in  a  barren  isle 

Bondage  and  death  await  thee  " — say,  had  then 

That  heart  forgot  its  pride,  that  lip  its  scorn  ? 

But  this  hath  fate  both  written  and  achieved ; 

For  not  in  palaces  and  halls  of  state, 

Not  in  thy  crowned  and  sceptred  royalty, 

Not  in  the  hurry  of  the  battle  field, 

Thy  spirit  soared  upon  the  viewless  winds ; 

But,  dimmed  and  shaken  on  its  throne  of  light, 

Ere  the  pulse  ceased  to  vibrate  on  the  couch, 

Th'  inglorious  couch  of  natural  disease — 

It  lingered  on  each  agonizing  gasp, 

Called  on  thy  young  NAPOLEON,  and  on  France, 

Then  fled  in  frenzy  from  the  reach  of  Time. 

Heroic  spirit !  when  exulting  Death 

Paused  to  contemplate  o'er  thy  changing  brow 

His  mightiest  victim — not  one  stifled  groan, 

The  natural  voice  of  agony,  was  heard, 

And  not  one  sigh  for  thy  departed  power. 

But  now  the  spell  is  broken,  and  the  scourge 
Of  HEAVEN'S  high  wrath  is  shivered  ;  unto  dust, 
Fast,  fast  he  moulders  unto  dust  away ; 
And  that  which  braved  the  elements  to  strife, 
Now  must  it  to  the  elements  be  thrown ! 
His  last  years  were  his  enemies' ;  his  corpse 
May  honor  still  their  urns  with  its  decay ; 
But  what  must  challenge  them,  and  Death,  and  Time, 
To  chain  it  or  annihilate — his  name — 
Imperishable  while  the  earth  endures, 
Is  left  to  history  and  the  tragic  pen. 


ASA    MOORE    BOLLES. 

[Born  1802.    Died  1832.] 

ASA  MOORE  BOLLES  was  born  at  Ashford,  on  the  22d  of  September, 
1802.  He  was  fitted  for  College  at  the  Plainfield  Academy,  and 
was  graduated  at  Brown  University,  in  1823.  He  became  a  student 
at  law  in  the  town  of  Canterbury,  in  the  office  of  the  Hon.  ANDREW 
T.  JUDSON,  along  with  his  old  friend  and  classmate,  GEORGE  DENISON 
PRENTICE.  In  August,  1826,  he  was  admitted  to  the  bar,  and  com 
menced  the  practice  of  his  profession  in  the  town  of  Killingworth. 
He  was  married  to  a  niece  of  Dr.  RICHARD  MANSFIELD,  and  continued 
to  reside  in  Killingworth  until  the  year  1832.  He  then  opened  an 
office  in  the  city  of  Middletown,  and  was  about  to  remove  thither, 
when  he  was  seized  with  the  Cholera,  which  terminated  fatally. 
His  death  occurred  at  Killingworth,  in  September,  1832. 

Mr.  BOLLES  published  poetical  articles,  which  were  deemed  to 
possess  much  merit,  in  the  Providence  periodicals,  and  was  afterward 
a  correspondent  of  the  "  New  England  Weekly  Review."  We  regret 
that  many  of  his  best  articles  are  lost,  and  that  those  which  we 
are  enabled  to  present  possess  too  much  similarity  of  subject  and 
character.  They  are  marked  by  pleasant  thought  and  melodious 
versification. 


TO   "IL   PENSEROSO."* 

"  -  the  brightest  star 


In  Retrospection's  glowing  sky. 

Six  years  ago  —  six  years  ago, 

When  life  was  in  its  vernal  flower, 
Our  feelings  mingled  like  the  flow 

Of  music  at  the  moon-lit  hour, 
When  earth  and  air  and  sky  are  sleeping, 
From  harps  the  Summer  winds  are  sweeping, 
And  Mirth  and  Friendship  wake  the  glow 
That  warmed  our  hearts  —  six  years  ago. 

II  Penseroso"  was  the  usual  signature  of  GEORGE  DENISON  PRENTICE. 


316  POETS    OF    CONNECTICUT. 

s^-^~^-*^~^r^^-*^~*^^^-^s--^-^-^^^ 

Six  years  ago — we  rose  to  hail 

The  morn  together  on  the  mountain, 
Or  wandered  off  through  tangled  dale 

By  many  a  moss-grown  rock  and  fountain ; 
Too  wise  to  let  the  thought  of  morrow 
Cloud  o'er  the  present  day  with  sorrow ; 
Too  rich  in  Frolic's  store  to  owe 
One  debt  to  Grief — six  years  ago. 

Six  years  ago — the  gems  above, 

That  lit  the  night-sky  bending  o'er  us, 
Inspired  no  dreams  of  bliss  and  love 

Brighter  than  those  that  danced  before  us ! 
Amid  the  chrystal  throng  of  Even 
No  eye  could  trace  a  lovelier  heaven, 
Than  that  our  fancies  taught  to  glow 
Above  our  path — six  years  ago. 

Six  years  ago  !     How  these  few  words 

Wake  all  of  Memory's  sweetest  numbers, 
Like  the  Spring-song  of  early  birds 

That  used  to  break  my  boyhood's  slumbers ' 
The  Past ! — oh  could  its  hours  return 
Bright  as  they  glow  in  Memory's  urn, 
The  fleeting  moments  should  be  told 
As  misers  count  their  hoarded  gold. 

Six  years  ago  !     The  mists  that  rise 

Between  us  and  the  days  that  were, 
Throw  not  a  shadow  o'er  the  skies 

That  hallow  the  deep  sunlight  there  : 
Though  Time  from  other  years  is  stealing 
The  freshness  of  their  first  revealing, 
Some  mellowed  pictures  of  the  heart 
Defy  the  Spoiler's  deadliest  art. 

And  this  is  one  ? — or  is  the  light 

Which  lingers  on  that  wreath  of  roses, 

Like  the  low  sunbeam  of  the  night 
That  on  the  mountain-top  reposes, 


Bathing  the  peak  in  liquid  gold, 
Made  brighter  by  the  sable  fold 
Of  Evening's  wing — soon,  soon  to  fade 
And  mingle  with  surrounding  shade  ? 

Six  years  ! — through  all  of  good  or  ill 
I  've  traced  thy  eagle  course  with  pride, 

Strong  as  a  brother's — and  if  still 
From  all  the  past  I  turn  aside 

To  gaze  once  more  upon  this  vision 

Of  happier  days,  and  dreams  Elysian — 

'T  is  but  to  slake  the  spirit's  thirst 

At  the  bright  fount  we  tasted  first. 

Well — if  it  be  a  dream — if  all 

Must  fade  like  other  youthful  dreamings, 
And  it  be  mockery  to  recall 

One  beam  of  Friendship's  former  gleamings- 
If  cold  Oblivion's  wreath  must  wither 
The  wild  flower  wreaths  we  wove  together — 
'T  is  false  ! — it  must — can  not  be  so — 
Not  thus  we  pledged — six  years  ago. 


NIGHT   SCENE 
On  the  Banks  of  the  Potomac. 

'T  is  midnight ! — through  the  dusky  pines 
The  night-wind  faintly  sighs — the  dew 

Just  twinkles  on  the  leaf,  as  shines 
The  starlight  from  its  home  of  blue  : 

Around  how  calm ! — above  how  clear  ! 

No  murmur  wakes  an  echo  here. 

The  broad  deep  river  noiseless  flows, 
The  ripple  on  the  shore  expires 

Without  a  sound — its  bosom  glows 
Another  sky  with  all  its  fires, 

And  glasses  purely,  deeply  down 

Night's  raven  brow  and  starry  crown. 


318  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Far  down  the  winding  silent  bay 
Where  wave  and  sky  uniting  sweep 

In  darker  lines — a  trembling  ray 

Comes  gleaming  o'er  the  mirrored  deep ; 

Bright,  bright  amid  the  horizon's  gloom 

It  glows  like  hope  above  the  tomb ! 

Through  many  a  wild  and  stormy  night, 
Amid  the  tempest's  gathering  war 

An'd  hissing  wrath,  that  Cresset's  light 
Above  the  surge  has  beamed — a  star 

To  cheer  the  seaman's  eye — when  dark 

And  dashing  billows  smote  his  barque. 

But  thus — when  heaven  and  earth  are  still, 
And  e'en  yon  snowy  wild  swan's  cry 

Is  hushed — no  echo  from  the  hill — 
And  winds  are  sleeping  in  the  sky — 

How  pure  that  midnight  beacon  glows, 

The  brooding  spirit  of  repose  ! 

But  see  ! — yon  eastern  blood-red  streaks 
Deepening  along  night's  starry  band ! 

Slow  rising  o'er  the  wood-crowned  peaks, 
Whose  shadows  sweep  the  distant  strand, 

Peers  forth  the  queen  of  night — but  now 

The  crown  is  fading  on  her  brow. 

Her  glance  is  on  the  deep — so  dim 

And  joyless  o'er  the  blue  wave  bending, 

You  scarce  may  mark  on  Ocean's  brim 

Yon  white  sail  with  the  sea  mist  blending ; 

Away ! — how  pale  its  light  wing  flies, 

Like  some  pure  spirit  of  the  skies ! 

Lone  lovely  night ! — in  hours  like  this, 
To  heaven  first  rose  my  raptured  eye  ; 

And  pictured  forms  in  dreams  of  bliss 
Came  floating  through  the  shadowy  sky  ; 

Gay  dreams  of  youth ! — they  could  not  stay, 

But  fled  like  yon  lone  sail  away ! 


ASA     MOORE     BOLLES 

Pure  placid  night !  with  thee  I  deem 
My  spirit  fresher  !  as  thy  dews 

Awake  the  withering  flowers,  and  gleam 
Upon  their  fading  leaflet's  hues, 

Thy  starlight  o'er  my  spirit's  gloom 

Sends  down  a  beam  of  former  bloom. 

In  vain !  the  flowers  of  earth  may  fade 
And  smile  once  more  beneath  thy  dew, 

But  joy  and  hope  and  love  decayed 
No  blushing  tints  of  youth  renew ;" 

The  drops  of  heaven  descend  in  vain — 

The  withered  heart  ne'er  blooms  again. 


319 


TO    JULIA. 

Thy  life  is  in  its  day-spring  glow, 

And  hope  and  joy  are  round  thee  ; 
Young  pleasure's  dewy  coronal 

With  light  and  love  has  crowned  thee  ; 
No  stain  upon  the  vernal  sky 

That  smiles  upon  thy  path — the  air, 
With  kindest  touch,  breathes  gently  by 

Thy  cheek,  and  leaves  its  fragrance  there. 

The  blossoms  of  an  early  Spring 

Their  rose-hues  spread  before  thee, 
And  Love's  warm  morning-hour  has  thrown 

Its  sweetest  witcheries  o'er  thee  ; 
And  thoughts  as  pure  as  yon  blue  skies 

Are  thine,  in  many,  a  blissful  dream,' 
And  pictured  forms^with  fairy  dyes, 

Like  star-light  on  the  waveless  stream. 

May  Innocence  and  Love,  as  now, 
E'er  crown  thy  days  with  gladness, 

Nor  blighted  joys  leave  on  thy  brow 
One  stain  of  earthly  sadness  ! 


320  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

N_^-S^-*W--N-'-^-X_^^-N^-V^-X^^-V^->^^ 

Be  thine  to  pass  through  life,  like  those 
Whose  hearts,  still  fresh  in  Virtue's  bloom, 

Swell  with  new  pleasure  till  its  close, 
And  brighten  onward  to  the  tomb. 

Sweet  JULIA  !  thus,  be  ever  thus 

Thy  promise  of  the  morrow  ; 
Thine  be  the  day-spring  of  the  heart 

Without  its  night  of  sorrow  ; 
And  if  a  cloud  of  care  should  rest 

One  moment  in  the  darkened  air, 
May  Hope's  bright  sun  but  touch  its  breast, 

And  leave  the  rainbow  glittering  there ! 


TO 


Morn  wakes,  and  waves  her  purple  wing, 
Bright-glancing  over  earth  and  sea, 

And  happy  forms  of  beauty  spring 

To  life,  from  rock,  and  stream,  and  tree. 

Pure  daughters  of  the  Spring — the  flowers 
Are  trembling  with  the  drops  of  Even, 

While  sweetly  from  the  dewy  bowers 
Glad  music  bursts  away  to  heaven. 

The  sun-lit  billow's  glowing  breast 
Heaves  like  the  bosom  gushing  o'er 

With  joy — and,  shaking  its  proud  crest, 
Comes  shouting  onward  to  the  shore. 

Oh,  at  this  hour — when,  from  above, 
The  light  cloud  o'er  the  mirrored  deep, 

Comes  floating  like  a  dream  of  Love 
That  hovers  o'er  the  hour  of  sleep — 

When  the  glad  sounds  of  Nature's  mirth 
Are  swelling  o'er  the  deep  blue  sea, 

My  heart  from  all  the  bliss  of  earth, 
"  Exulting  turns  again  to  thee." 


321 


GEORGE   DENIS  ON  PRENTICE. 


[Born  1802.] 

GEORGE  DENISON  PRENTICE,  son  of  the  late  RUFUS  PRENTICE,  is  a 
native  of  Preston,  in  New  London  County,  where  he  was  born  on 
the  18th  of  December,  1802.  He  was  graduated  at  Brown  Univer 
sity,  in  1823,  and  read  law  with  Judge  JUDSON,  of  Canterbury.  He 
has  never  practised  his  profession,  however,  but  devoted  himself 
chiefly  to  editorial  labors.  In  the  spring  of  1828,  he  established 
the  "  New  England  Weekly  Review,"  in  Hartford,  which  he  con 
ducted  until  the  summer  of  1830.  He  then  resigned  his  editorial 
chair  to  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER,  and  removed  to  the  west, 
being  engaged  in  preparing  his  "  Life  of  HENRY  CLAY,"  which 
was  afterward  published.  The  Review,  under  the  charge  of  Mr. 
PRENTICE,  was  one  of  the  most  popular  periodicals  of  the  day. 
Many  of  the  poems  of  its  editor  appeared  in  its  columns;  and  he 
succeeded  in  drawing  around  him  a  band  of  correspondents,  whose 
united  contributions  gave  it  a  degree  of  literary  interest  rarely 
attained  by  a  weekly  newspaper. 

Soon  after  Mr.  PRENTICE'S  removal  to  the  west,  he  fixed  his  resi 
dence  at  Louisville,  in  Kentucky,  and  assumed  the  charge  of  the 
"  Louisville  Journal,"  which  he  still  retains.  It  is  one  of  the  most 
popular  gazettes  of  the  country,  and  has  but  one  rival  in  the  depart 
ment  of  sarcastic  wit.  Indeed,  to  such  an  extent  has  this  talent  for 
wit  distinguished  its  editor,  that  it  has  been  common  for  many  of  the 
newspapers  to  appropriate  a  regular  corner  to  these  amusing  tri 
fles,  under  the  head  of  "  PRENTICE'S  LAST." 

The  poetical  compositions  of  Mr.  PRENTICE  were  written  several 
years  since,  and  many  of  them  while  he  was  a  member  of  college. 
They  were  published  in  the  "  Review,"  and  various  other  periodicals, 
but  have  never  been  collected.  They  have  been  very  generally 
circulated,  and  have  gained  for  their  author,  in  its  widest  sense,  a 
"  newspaper  reputation."  They  are  characterized,  at  times,  by  great 
strength  of  thought  and  expression,  and  at  others  by  tender  feeling 
and  delicate  fancy.  If  their  author  would  devote  more  of  his  time 
to  such  composition,  he  might  win  for  himself  a  high  name  among 
the  sons  of  song. 


322  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

LINES 
On  a  distant  view  of  the  Ocean. 

How  beautiful !  from  his  blue  throne  on  high, 

The  sun  looks  downward  with  a  face  of  love 
Upon  the  silent  waters  !  and  a  sky, 

Lovelier  than  that  which  lifts  its  arch  above, 
Down  the  far  depths  of  Ocean,  like  a  sheet 

Of  flame,  is  trembling !  the  wild  tempests  cease 
To  wave  their  cloudy  pinions.     Oh,  't  is  sweet 

To  gaze  on  Ocean  in  his  hour  of  peace. 

Years  have  gone  by  since  first  my  infant  eyes 

Rested  upon  those  waters.     Once  again, 
As  here  I  muse,  the  hours  of  childhood  rise 

Faint  o'er  my  memory,  like  some  witching  strain 
Of  half-forgotten  music.     Yon  blue  wave 

Still,  still  rolls  on  in  beauty ;  but  the  tide 
Of  years  rolls  darkling  o'er  the  lonely  grave 

Of  hopes  that  with  my  life's  bright  morning  died. 

Look !  look !  the  clouds'  light  shadows  from  above, 

Like  fairy  islands,  o'er  the  waters  sweep ! 
Oh,  I  have  dreamed  my  spirit  thus  could  love 

To  float  for  ever  on  the  boundless  deep, 
Communing  with  the  elements  ;  to  hear, 

At  midnight  hour,  the  death-winged  tempest  rave, 
Or  gaze,  admiring,  on  each  starry  sphere, 

Glassing  its  glories  in  the  mirror-wave ; 

To  dream,  deep-mingling  with  the  shades  of  eve, 

On  Ocean's  spirits,  caves,  and  coral  halls, 
Where,  cold  and  dark,  the  eternal  billows  heave, 

No  zephyr  breathes,  nor  struggling  sunbeam  falls ; 
As  round  some  far  isle  of  the  burning  zone, 

Where  tropic  groves  perfume  the  breath  of  morn, 
List  to  the  Ocean's  melancholy  tone, 

Like  a  lone  mourner's  on  the  night  winds  borne  ; 

To  see  the  infant  wave  on  yon  blue  verge, 
Like  a  young  eagle,  breast  the  sinking  sun, 

And  twilight  dying  on  the  crimson  surge, 

Till,  down  the  deep,  dark  zenith,  one  by  one, 


GEORGE     D.     PRENTICE. 


323 


The  lights  of  heaven  were  streaming ;  or  to  weep 
The  lost,  the  beautiful,  that  calmly  rest 

Beneath  the  eternal  wave  :  then  sink  to  sleep, 
Hushed  by  the  beating  of  the  Ocean's  breast. 

Oh,  it  were  joy  to  wander  wild  and  free 

Where  southern  billows  in  the  sunlight  flash, 
Or  Night  sits  brooding  o'er  the  northern  sea, 

And  all  is  still,  save  the  o'erwhelming  dash 
Of  that  dark  world  of  waters  ;  there  to  view 

The  meteor  hanging  from  its  cloud  on  high, 
Or  see  the  northern  fires,  with  blood-red  hue, 

Shake  their  wild  tresses  o'er  the  startled  sky ! 

'T  is  sweet,  't  is  sweet  to  gaze  upon  the  deep, 

And  muse  upon  its  mysteries.     There  it  rolled, 
Ere  yet  that  glorious  sun  had  learned  to  sweep 

The  blue  profound,  and  bathe  the  heavens  in  gold ; 
The  morning  stars,  as  up  the  skies  they  came, 

Heard  their  first  music  o'er  the  Ocean  rung, 
And  saw  the  first  flash  of  their  new-born  flame 

Back  from  its  depths  in  softer  brightness  flung ! 

And  there  it  rolls  !     Age  after  age  has  swept 

Down,  down  the  eternal  cataract  of  Time  ; 
Men  after  men  on  earth's  cold  bosom  slept ; 

Still,  there  it  rolls,  unfading  and  sublime  ! 
As  bright  those  waves  their  sunny  sparkles  fling, 

As  sweetly  now  the  bending  heaven  they  kiss, 
As  when  the  HOLY  SPIRIT'S  brooding  wing 

Moved  o'er  the  waters  of  the  vast  abyss ! 

There,  there  it  rolls.     I  Ve  seen  the  clouds  unfurl 

Their  raven  banner  from  the  stormy  west ; 
I  've  seen  the  wrathful  Tempest  Spirit  hurl 

His  blue-forked  lightnings  at  the  Ocean's  breast ; 
The  storm-cloud  passed,  the  sinking  wave  was  hushed, 

Those  budding  isles  were  glittering  fresh  and  fair  ; 
Serenely  bright  the  peaceful  waters  blushed, 

And  heaven  seemed  painting  its  own  beauties  there  ! 


324 


POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 


Ocean,  farewell !     Upon  thy  mighty  shore, 

I  loved  in  childhood's  fairy  hours  to  dwell ; 
But  I  am  wasting,  life  will  soon  be  o'er, 

And  I  shall  cease  to  gaze  on  thee  :  farewell ! 
Thou  still  wilt  glow  as  fair  as  now,  the  sky 

Still  arch  as  proudly  o'er  thee,  evening  steal 
Along  thy  bosom  with  as  soft  a  dye, 

All  be  as  now,  but  I  shall  cease  to  feel. 

The  evening  mists  are  on  their  silent  way, 

And  thou  art  fading ;  faint  thy  colors  blend 
With  the  last  tinges  of  the  dying  day, 

And  deeper  shadows  up  the  skies  ascend. 
Farewell !  farewell !  the  night  is  coming  fast ; 

In  deeper  tones  thy  wild  notes  seem  to  swell 
Upon  the  cold  wings  of  the  rising  blast ; 

I  go,  I  go  ;  dear  Ocean,  fare  thee  well ! 


THE  CLOSING  YEAR. 

'Tis  midnight's  holy  hour,  and  silence  now 
Is  brooding  like  a  gentle  spirit  o'er 
The  still  and  pulseless  world.     Hark !  on  the  winds 
The  bell's  deep  tones  are  swelling:  'tis  the  knell 
Of  the  departed  year.     No  funeral  train 
Is  sweeping  past,  yet,  on  the  stream  and  wood, 
With  melancholy  light,  the  moonbeams  rest 
Like  a  pale,  spotless  shroud ;  the  air  is  stirred 
As  by  a  mourner's  sigh  ;  and  on  yon  cloud, 
That  floats  so  still  and  placidly  through  heaven, 
The  spirits  of  the  seasons  seem  to  stand — 
Young  Spring,  bright  Summer,  Autumn's  solemn  form, 
And  Winter,  with  his  aged  locks — and  breathe, 
In  mournful  cadences,  that  come  abroad 
Like  the  far  wind-harp's  wild  and  touching  wail, 
A  melancholy  dirge  o'er  the  dead  year 
Gone  from  the  earth  for  ever. 

T  is  a  time 

For  memory  and  for  tears.     Within  the  deep 
Still  chambers  of  the  heart,  a  spectre  dim, 


GEORGE      D.     PRENTICE. 


325 


Whose  tones  are  like  the  wizard  voice  of  Time, 

Heard  from  the  tomb  of  ages,  points  its  cold 

And  solemn  finger  to  the  beautiful 

And  holy  visions,  that  have  passed  away, 

And  left  no  shadow  of  their  loveliness 

On  the  dead  waste  of  life.     That  spectre  lifts 

The   coffin-lid  of  Hope,  and  Joy,  and  Love, 

And,  bending  mournfully  above  the  pale 

Sweet  forms  that  slumber  there,  scatters  dead  flowers 

O'er  what  has  passed  to  nothingness.     The  year 

Has  gone,  and  with  it,  many  a  glorious  throng 

Of  happy  dreams.     Its  mark  is  on  each  brow, 

Its  shadow  in  each  heart.     In  its  swift  course 

It  waved  its  sceptre  o'er  the  beautiful : 

And  they  are  not.     It  laid  its  pallid  hand 

Upon  the  strong  man :  and  the  haughty  form 

Is  fallen,  and  the  flashing  eye  is  dim. 

It  trod  the  hall  of  revelry,  where  thronged 

The  bright  and  joyous  :  and  the  tearful  wail 

Of  stricken  ones  is  heard  where  erst  the  song 

And  reckless  shout  resounded.     It  passed  o'er 

The  battle-plain,  where  sword,  and  spear,  and  shield 

Flashed  in  the  light  of  mid-day :  and  the  strength 

Of  serried  hosts  is  shivered,  and  the  grass, 

Green  from  the  soil  of  carnage,  waves  above 

The  crushed  and  mouldering  skeleton.     It  came, 

And  faded  like  a  wreath  of  mist  at  eve  ; 

Yet,  ere  it  melted  in  the  viewless  air, 

It  heralded  its  millions  to  their  home 

In  the  dim  land  of  dreams. 

Remorseless  Time ! 

Fierce  spirit  of  the  glass  and  scythe !  what  power 
Can  stay  him  in  his  silent  course,  or  melt 
His  iron  heart  to  pity  ?     On,  still  on 
He  presses,  and  for  ever.     The  proud  bird, 
The  condor  of  the  Andes,  that  can  soar 
Through  heaven's  unfathomable  depths,  or  brave 
The  fury  of  the  northern  hurricane, 
And  bathe  his  plumage  in  the  thunder's  home, 
Furls  his  broad  wings  at  nightfall,  and  sinks  down 


326 


POETS    OF    CONNECTICUT. 


To  rest  upon  his  mountain-crag  ;  but  Time 

Knows  not  the  weight  of  sleep  or  weariness ; 

And  Night's  deep  darkness  has  no  chain  to  bind 

His  rushing  pinion.  '  Revolutions  sweep 

O'er  earth,  like  troubled  visions  o'er  the  breast 

Of  dreaming  sorrow ;  cities  rise  and  sink 

Like  bubbles  on  the  water ;  fiery  isles 

Spring  blazing  from  the  Ocean,  and  go  back 

To  their  mysterious  caverns  ;  mountains  rear 

To  heaven  their  bald  and  blackened  cliffs,  and  bow 

Their  tall  heads  to  the  plain  ;  new  empires  rise, 

Gathering  the  strength  of  hoary  centuries, 

And  rush  down  like  the  Alpine  Avalanche, 

Startling  the  nations  ;  and  the  very  stars, 

Yon  bright  and  burning  blazonry  of  GOD, 

Glitter  awhile  in  their  eternal  depths, 

And,  like  the  Pleiad,  loveliest  of  their  train, 

Shoot  from  their  glorious  spheres,  and  pass  away 

To  darkle  in  the  trackless  void.     Yet  Time, 

Time,  the  tomb-builder,  holds  his  fierce  career, 

Dark,  stern,  all-pitiless  ;  and  pauses  not, 

Amid  the  mighty  wrecks  that  strew  his  path, 

To  sit  and  muse,  like  other  conquerors, 

Upon  the  fearful  ruin  he  has  wrought. 


LINES   TO   A   LADY. 

Lady,  I  love,  at  eventide, 

When  stars,  as  now,  are  on  the  wave, 
To  stray,  in  loneliness,  and  muse 

Upon  the  one  dear  form  that  gave 
Its  sunlight  to  my  boyhood  ;  oft 
That  same  sweet  look  sinks,  still  and  soft, 
Upon  my  spirit,  and  appears 
As  lovely  as  in  by-gone  years. 

Eve's  low,  faint  wind  is  breathing  now, 
With  deep  and  soul-like  murmuring, 

Through  the  dark  pines  ;  and  thy  sweet  words 
Seem  borne  on  its  mysterious  wing ; 


GEORGE     D.     PRENTICE. 

And  oft,  mid  musings  sad  and  lone, 
At  night's  deep  noon,  that  thrilling  tone 
Swells  in  the  wind,  low,  wild,  and  clear, 
Like  music  in  the  dreaming  air. 

When  Sleep's  calm  wing  is  on  my  brow, 

And  dreams  of  peace  my  spirit  lull, 
Before  me,  like  a  misty  star, 

That  form  floats  dim  and  beautiful ; 
And,  when  the  gentle  moonbeam  smiles 
On  the  blue  streams  and  dark-green  isles, 
In  every  ray  poured  down  the  sky, 
That  same  light  form  seems  stealing  by. 

It  is  a  blessed  picture,  shrined 

In  Memory's  urn  ;  the  wing  of  years 

Can  change  it  not,  for  there  it  glows, 
Undimmed  by  "  weaknesses  and  tears  ;" 

Deep-hidden  in  its  still  recess, 

It  beams  with  love  and  holiness, 

O'er  hours  of  being,  dark  and  dull, 

Till  life  seems  almost  beautiful. 

The  vision  cannot  fade  away ; 

'T  is  in  the  stillness  of  my  heart ; 
And  o'er  its  brightness  I  have  mused 

In  solitude  ;  it  is  a  part 
Of  my  existence  ;  a  dear  flower 
Breathed  on  by  heaven  ;  morn's  earliest  hour 
That  flower  bedews,  and  its  blue  eye 
At  eve  still  rests  upon  the  sky. 

Lady,  like  thine,  my  visions  cling 
To  the  dear  shrine  of  buried  years ; 

The  past,  the  past !  it  is  too  bright, 
Too  deeply  beautiful  for  tears  ; 

We  have  been  blessed  ;  though  life  is  made 

A  tear,  a  silence,  and  a  shade  ; 

And  years  have  left  the  vacant  breast 

To  loneliness — we  have  been  blessed! 


327 


328  POETS    OF    CONNECTICUT. 

-^^-s^-^^-N_^X_^X^^^-X^-^^^^->^-v_^-^^^^>^ 

Those  still,  those  soft,  those  summer  eves, 

When  by  our  favorite  stream  we  stood, 
And  watched  our  mingling  shadows  there, 

Soft-pictured  in  the  deep-blue  flood, 
Seemed  one  enchantment.     Oh  !  we  felt, 
As  there,  at  love's  pure  shrine,  we  knelt, 
That  life  was  sweet,  and  all  its  hours 
A  glorious  dream  of  love  and  flowers. 

And  still  't  is  sweet.     Our  hopes  went  by 

Like  sounds  upon  the  unbroken  sea ; 
Yet  Memory  wings  the  spirit  back 

To  deep,  undying  melody  ; 
And  still,  around  her  early  shrine, 
Fresh  flowers  their  dewy  chaplets  twine, 
Young  Love  his  brightest  garland  wreathes, 
And  Eden's  richest  incense  breathes. 

Our  hopes  are  flown — yet  parted  hours 
Still  in  the  depths  of  Memory  lie, 

Like  night-gems  in  the  silent  blue 
Of  Summer's  deep  and  brilliant  sky ; 

And  Love's  bright  flashes  seem  again 

To  fall  upon  the  glowing  chain 

Of  our  existence.     Can  it  be 

That  all  is  but  a  mockery  ? 

Lady,  adieu !  to  other  climes 

I  go,  from  joy,  and  hope,  and  thee ; 

A  weed  on  Time's  dark  waters  thrown, 
A  wreck  on  life's  wild-heaving  sea ; 

I  go ;  but  oh,  the  past,  the  past ! 

Its  spell  is  o'er  my  being  cast ; 

And  still,  to  Love's  remembered  eves, 

With  all  but  hope,  my  spirit  cleaves. 

Adieu!  adieu!     My  farewell  words 
Are  on  my  lyre,  and  their  wild  flow 

Is  faintly  dying  on  the  chords, 
Broken  and  tuneless.     Be  it  so  ! 


GEORGE     D.     PRENTICE. 

Thy  name — Oh,  may  it  never  swell 
My  strain  again — yet  long  't  will  dwell 
Shrined  in  my  heart,  imbreathed,  unspoken — 
A  treasured  word — a  cherished  token. 


329 


A  NIGHT  IN  JUNE. 

Night  steals  upon  the  world ;  the  shades 
With  silent  flight,  are  sweeping  down 

To  steep,  as  day's  last  glory  fades, 
In  tints  of  blue  the  landscape  brown ; 

The  wave  breaks  not ;  deep  slumber  holds 

The  dewy  leaves  ;  the  night-wind  folds 

Her  melancholy  wing  ;  and  sleep 

Is  forth  upon  the  pulseless  deep. 

The  willows,  mid  the  silent  rocks, 

Are  brooding  o'er  the  waters  mild, 
Like  a  fond  mother's  pendent  locks, 

Hung  sweetly  o'er  her  sleeping  child  ; 
The  flowers  that  fringe  the  purple  stream, 
Are  sinking  to  their  evening  dream ; 
And  earth  appears  a  lovely  spot, 
Where  Sorrow's  voice  awakens  not. 

But  see  !  such  pure,  such  beautiful, 

And  burning  scenes  awake  to  birth 
In  yon  bright  depths,  they  render  dull 

The  loveliest  tints  that  mantle  earth ! 
The  heavens  are  rolling  blue  and  fair, 
And  the  soft  night-gems  clustering  there 
Seem,  as  on  high  they  breathe  and  burn, 
Bright  blossoms  o'er  day's  shadowy  urn. 

At  this  still  hour,  when  starry  songs 

Are  floating  through  night's  glowing  noon, 

How  sweet  to  view  those  radiant  throngs 
Glitter  around  the  throne  of  June  ! 

To  see  them,  in  their  watch  of  love, 

Gaze  from  the  holy  heavens  above, 


330  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

And  in  their  robes  of  brightness  roam 
Like  angels  o'er  the  eternal  dome ! 

Their  light  is  on  the  ocean  isles, 

'T  is  trembling  on  the  mountain  stream ; 
And  the  far  hills,  beneath  their  smiles, 

Seem  creatures  of  a  blessed  dream ! 
Upon  the  deep  their  glory  lies, 
As  if  untreasured  from  the  skies, 
And  comes  soft  flashing  from  its  waves, 
Like  sea-gems  from  their  sparry  caves ! 

******** 
Why  gaze  I  thus  !  't  is  worse  than  vain ! 

'T  was  here  I  gazed  in  years  gone  by, 
Ere  life's  cold  winds  had  breathed  one  stain 
On  Fancy's  rich  and  mellow  sky. 
I  feel,  I  feel  those  early  years 
Deep  thrilling  through  the  fount  of  tears, 
And  hurrying  brightly,  wildly  back 
O'er  Memory's  deep  and  burning  track ! 

'T  was  here  I  gazed !  the  night-bird  still 

Pours  its  sweet  song ;  the  starlight  beams 
Still  tinge  the  flower  and  forest  hill ; 

And  music  gushes  from  the  streams ; 
But  I  am  changed !  I  feel  no  more 
The  sinless  joys  that  charmed  before  ; 
And  the  dear  years,  so  far  departed, 
Come  but  to  "mock  the  broken  hearted  ! " 


SABBATH    EVENING. 
How  calmly  sinks  the  parting  sun ! 

Yet  twilight  lingers  still ; 
And  beautiful  as  dreams  of  heaven 

It  slumbers  on  the  hill ; 
Earth  sleeps,  with  all  her  glorious  things, 
Beneath  the  HOLY  SPIRIT'S  wings, 
And,  rendering  back  the  hues  above, 
Seems  resting  in  a  trance  of  love. 


Round  yonder  rocks  the  forest-trees 

In  shadowy  groups  recline, 
Like  saints  at  evening  bowed  in  prayer 

Around  their  holy  shrine  ; 
And  through  their  leaves  the  night-winds  blow, 
So  calm  and  still,  their  music  low 
Seems  the  mysterious  voice  of  prayer, 
Soft  echoed  on  the  evening  air. 

And  yonder  western  throng  of  clouds, 

Retiring  from  the  sky, 
So  calmly  move,  so  softly  glow, 

They  seem  to  Fancy's  eye 
Bright  creatures  of  a  better  sphere, 
Come  down  at  noon  to  worship  here, 
And,  from  their  sacrifice  of  love, 
Returning  to  their  home  above. 

The  blue  isles  of  the  golden  sea, 

The  night-arch  floating  high, 
The  flowers  that  gaze  upon  the  heavens, 

The  bright  streams  leaping  by, 
Are  living  with  religion — deep 
On  earth  and  sea  its  glories  sleep, 
And  mingle  with  the  starlight  rays, 
Like  the  soft  light  of  parted  days. 

The  spirit  of  the  holy  eve 

Comes  through  the  silent  air 
To  feeling's  hidden  spring,  and  wakes 

A  gush  of  music  there  ! 
And  the  far  depths  of  ether  beam 
So  passing  fair,  we  almost  dream 
That  we  can  rise,  and  wander  through 
Their  open  paths  of  trackless  blue. 

Each  soul  is  filled  with  glorious  dreams, 

Each  pulse  is  beating  wild  ; 
And  thought  is  soaring  to  the  shrine 

Of  glory  undefiled ! 


332  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

And  holy  aspirations  start, 

Like  blessed  angels,  from  the  heart, 

And  bind — for  earth's  dark  ties  are  riven — 

Our  spirits  to  the  gates  of  heaven. 


THE    DEAD    MARINER. 
Sleep  on,  sleep  on !  above  thy  corse 

The  winds  their  Sabbath  keep  ; 
The  waves  are  round  thee,  and  thy  breast 

Heaves  with  the  heaving  deep. 
O'er  thee  mild  eve  her  beauty  flings, 
And  there  the  white  gull  lifts  her  wings  ; 
And  the  blue  halcyon  loves  to  lave 
Her  plumage  in  the  deep  blue  wave. 

Sleep  on  ;  no  willow  o'er  thee  bends 

With  melancholy  air, 
No  violet  springs,  nor  dewy  rose 

Its  soul  of  love  lays  bare  ; 
But  there  the  sea-flower,  bright  and  young, 
Is  sweetly  o'er  thy  slumbers  flung ; 
And,  like  a  weeping  mourner  fair, 
The  pale  flag  hangs  its  tresses  there. 

Sleep  on,  sleep  on  ;  the  glittering  depths 

Of  Ocean's  coral  caves 
Are  thy  bright  urn — thy  requiem 

The  music  of  its  waves  ; 
The  purple  gems  for  ever  burn 
In  fadeless  beauty  round  thy  urn  ; 
And  pure  and  deep  as  infant  love, 
The  blue  sea  rolls  its  waves  above. 

Sleep  on,  sleep  on  ;  the  fearful  wrath 

Of  mingling  cloud  and  deep 
May  leave  its  wild  and  stormy  track 

Above  thy  place  of  sleep  ; 
But,  when  the  wave  has  sunk  to  rest, 
As  now,  't  will  murmur  o'er  thy  breast ; 
And  the  bright  victims  of  the  sea 
Perchance  will  make  their  home  with  thee. 


Sleep  on  ;  thy  corse  is  far  away, 

But  love  bewails  thee  yet ; 
For  thee  the  heart-wrung  sigh  is  breathed, 

And  lovely  eyes  are  wet ; 
And  she,  thy  young  and  beauteous  bride, 
Her  thoughts  are  hovering  by  thy  side, 
As  oft  she  turns  to  view,  with  tears, 
The  Eden  of  departed  years. 


WRITTEN   AT   MY  MOTHER'S    GRAVE. 

The  trembling  dew-drops  fall 
Upon  the  shutting  flowers ;  like  souls  at  rest 
The  stars  shine  gloriously :  and  all 
Save  me,  are  blest. 

Mother,  I  love  thy  grave  ! 
The  violet,  with  its  blossoms  blue  and  mild, 
Waves  o'er  thy  head  ;  when  shall  it  wave 
Above  thy  child ! 

'T  is  a  sweet  flower,  yet  must 
Its  bright  leaves  to  the  coming  tempest  bow ; 
Dear  mother,  't  is  thine  emblem  ;  dust 
Is  on  thy  brow. 

And  I  could  love  to  die  : 
To  leave  untasted  life's  dark,  bitter  streams — 
By  thee,  as  erst  in  childhood,  lie, 

And  share  thy  dreams. 

And  must  I  linger  here, 
To  stain  the  plumage  of  my  sinless  years, 
And  mourn  the  hopes  to  childhood  dear 
With  bitter  tears? 

Ay,  must  I  linger  here, 
A  lonely  branch  upon  a  withered  tree, 
Whose  last  frail  leaf,  untimely  sere, 
Went  down  with  thee  ? 

J 


POETS    OF    CONNECTICUT. 

Oft,  from  life's  withered  bower, 
In  still  communion  with  the  past,  I  turn, 
And  muse  on  thee,  the  only  flower 
In  Memory's  urn. 

And,  when  the  evening  pale, 
Bows,  like  a  mourner,  on  the  dim,  blue  wave, 
I  stray  to  hear  the  night-winds  wail 
Around  thy  grave. 

Where  is  thy  spirit  flown  ? 
I  gaze  above — thy  look  is  imaged  there  ; 
I  listen — and  thy  gentle  tone 
Is  on  the  air. 

Oh,  come,  while  here  I  press 
My  brow  upon  thy  grave ;  and,  in  those  mild 
And  thrilling  notes  of  tenderness, 

Bless,  bless  thy  child ! 

Yes,  bless  thy  weeping  child  ; 
And  o'er  thine  urn — Religion's  holiest  shrine— 
Oh,  give  his  spirit,  undefiled, 

To  blend  with  thine. 


I    THINK    OF    THEE. 

I  think  of  thee  when  Morning  springs 

From  sleep,  with  plumage  bathed  in  dew, 

And,  like  a  young  bird,  lifts  her  wings 
Of  gladness  on  the  welkin  blue. 

I  think  of  thee,  when,  soft  and  wide, 

The  Evening  spreads  her  robes  of  light, 

And,  like  a  young  and  timid  bride, 
Sits  blushing  in  the  arms  of  Night. 

And  when  the  Moon's  sweet  cresset  springs 
In  light  o'er  heaven's  deep,  waveless  sea, 

And  stars  are  forth,  like  blessed  things, 
I  think  of  thee — I  think  of  thee. 


REV.     NORMAN     PINNEY 


335 


REV.    NORMAN    PINNEY. 

[Born  1804.] 

THE  Rev.  NORMAN  PINNEY  was  born  at  Simsbury,  in  Hartford 
County,  on  the  21st  of  October,  1804.  He  was  graduated  at  Yale 
College,  in  1823  ;  and,  after  a  course  of  theological  study,  was 
admitted  to  the  ministry  of  the  Protestant  Episcopal  Church,  by  the 
Rt.  Rev.  Bishop  BROWNELL.  For  several  years  he  was  connected 
with  Washington  College,  in  Hartford,  first  as  Tutor  of  Mathematics, 
and  afterward  as  Professor  of  Ancient  Languages.  Subsequently, 
he  removed  to  the  city  of  Mobile,  where  he  relinquished  the  ministry, 
and  devoted  himself  exclusively  to  the  instruction  of  youth.  He 
still  resides  in  Mobile,  in  charge  of  an  institution  for  classical  edu 
cation. 

The  poetical  writings  of  Mr.  PINNEY  are  of  a  pleasing  character. 
But  few  of  them  have  been  committed  to  the  press,  and  our  selections 
are,  therefore,  necessarily  limited.  They  were  mostly  contributed, 
several  years  since,  to  the  columns  of  the  "  New  England  Weekly 
Review,"  and  the  "  Episcopal  Watchman,"  at  that  time  published 
in  Hartford. 


SABBATH   MORNING. 

How  calm  comes  on  this  holy  day ! 

Morning  unfolds  the  eastern  sky, 
And  upward  takes  her  lofty  way 

Triumphant  to  her  throne  on  high. 
Earth  glorious  wakes,  as  o'er  her  breast 

The  morning  flings  her  rosy  ray, 
And  blushing  from  her  dreamless  rest 

Unveils  her  to  the  gaze  of  day  : 
So  still  the  scene,  each  wakeful  sound 
Seems  hallowed  music  breathing  round. 

The  night-winds  to  their  mountain  caves, 
The  morning  mists  to  heaven's  blue  steep, 

And  to  their  ocean  depths  the  waves 
Are  gone,  their  holy  rest  to  keep. 


336  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

T  is  tranquil  all,  around,  above, 
The  forests  far  which  bound  the  scene 

Are  peaceful  as  their  Maker's  love, 
Like  hills  of  everlasting  green. 

And  clouds  like  earthly  barriers  stand, 

Or  bulwarks  of  some  viewless  land. 

Each  tree  that  lifts  its  arms  in  air, 

Or  hangs  its  pensive  head  from  high, 
Seems  bending  at  its  morning  prayer, 

Or  whispering  with  the  hours  gone  by ; 
This  holy  morning,  LORD,  is  thine ! 

Let  silence  sanctify  thy  praise ; 
Let  heaven  and  earth  in  love  combine, 

And  morning  stars  their  music  raise  ! 
For  't  is  the  day — joy,  joy,  ye  dead  ! 
When  death  and  hell  were  captive  led ! 


MIDSUMMER   MOONLIGHT. 
This  moonlight  hour  ! — this  moonlight  hour  ! 

'T  is  nature's  holiest,  happiest  time, 
When  beauty  claims  supremest  power, 

And  feeling  speaks  with  voice  sublime. 
Earth  pauses  now  as  in  delight, 

And  stillness  rests  o'er  field  and  flower, 
And  heaven  hangs  tranquil  o'er  the  night, 

Charmed  by  this  lovely  moonlight  hour. 

Each  form  that  decks  the  landscape  round, 

Or  rises  is  the  crystal  air, 
Darkening  with  giant  shades  the  ground, 

Or  trembling  in  the  moon-beams  fair, 
The  waveless  tide,  each  tree,  that  rears 

In  new-born  green,  its  leafy  bower, 
With  tenfold  deeper  grace  appears, 

Veiled  by  this  lovely  moonlight  hour. 

Oh !  lives  there  one  whose  joyless  breast 
Is  now  with  earthly  passions  fired, 

When  ocean-surges  are  at  rest, 

And  whirlwinds  to  their  caves  retired  ? 


NORMAN     P I N N  E  Y 


337 


On  barren  mountains  let  him  roam, 
Where  wintry  rocks  congenial  tower, 

And  seek  with  desert  tribes  his  home, 
Who  thus  profanes  this  moonlight  hour. 


SONNET. 

Calm  Twilight !  in  thy  wild  and  stilly  time, 

When  summer  flowers  their  perfumes  shed  around, 
And  nought,  save  the  deep,  solitary  sound 

Of  some  far  bell,  is  heard,  with  solemn  chime 

Tolling  for  Vespers — or  the  evening  bird, 
Carolling  music  in  the  shady  grove, 
Sweet  as  the  pure  outpourings  of  first  love, 

While  not  a  leaf  by  Zephyr's  breath  is  stirred — 

Bright  thoughts  of  those  beloved  and  dearest  come, 
Like  sunset  rays  upon  the  azure  wave, 

And  joys  which  blossomed  in  the  bower  of  home 
The  dews  of  memory  with  freshness  lave. 

Oh !  that  my  last  day-beams  of  life  would  shine, 

As  mildly  beautiful,  calm  hour,  as  thine. 


SONNET  TO . 

Still  unto  thee,  my  brightest,  fairest,  best, 

The  wandering  heart  returns  as  the  pure  dove 
Seeking  in  vain  the  olive-branch  of  love, 

Nor  finding  peace  save  in  its  ark  of  rest. 

My  flight  has  been  wide,  o'er  the  tossing  wave, 
Nor  bower,  nor  tree,  nor  mantling  vine  were  there ; 

And  like  rich  pearls  deep  in  their  ocean-cave, 
Were  hidden  all  things  beautiful  and  fair. 

Send  me  not  forth  again,  though  the  fair  sky 
Smile  o'er  the  green  enamelling  of  earth  ; 
Bright  joys  again  be  clustered  round  the  hearth, 

And  the  air  rife  with  breathing  melody ; 

Still  to  its  resting-place  the  dove  would  flee — 

Angel  of  beauty,  shall  it  dwell  with  thee  1 


338 


POETS    OF    CONNECTICUT. 


TO 


How  calm  is  Innocence  !     Its  glow 
Is  resting  on  that  cheek's  bright  hue, 

That  forehead  fair  of  stainless  snow, 
And  that  full  eye  of  cloudless  blue, 

Like  morning  on  some  sleeping  sea, 

Or  hope  on  dreams  of  ecstacy. 

So  full  and  clear  its  rising  beams 

Through  that  soft  veil  of  Beauty  shine, 

A  pictured  soul  the  vision  seems 
In  purity  and  peace  divine  ; 

And  thoughts  sink  lovelier  there  to  rest, 

Like  day-beams  on  the  rainbow's  breast. 

Thine  is  the  smile,  whose  splendors  pour 
O'er  all  those  lineaments  their  dyes, 

And  tell  how  deep  the  boundless  store 
Of  treasured  joys  from  whence  they  rise, 

As  the  blue  tints  of  ocean  show 

How  deep  its  bosom  heaves  below. 

The  rays,  which  palace  in  the  sky, 
Or  gild  the  glittering  gems  of  night, 

Are  wandering  in  that  clear  full  eye, 
Or  lingering  on  that  living  light, 

As  if  from  heaven  they  came  to  bear 

Those  thoughts  like  holy  treasures  there. 
*###*## 

Thou  art  to  me  the  loveliest  glow, 

That  mantles  o'er  life's  chequered  sky, 

A  living  spring  whose  stream  shall  flow 
Along  the  track  of  years  gone  by, 

And  with  far  murmurings  deep  and  clear, 

Make  music  still  on  memory's  ear. 

Farewell — I  go  to  foreign  skies, 
To  distant  lands,  to  scenes  afar, 

Yet  there,  that  one  dear  form  shall  rise 
Unfading  as  the  morning  star, 

And  smile  upon  that  desert  still, 

The  same  as  on  my  native  hill. 


REV.     JOSEPH     H.     NICHOLS.  339 


REV.    JOSEPH    HULBERT    NICHOLS. 

[Born  1805.] 

THE  Rev.  JOSEPH  HULBERT  NICHOLS  was  born  on  the  20th  of 
August,  1805,  at  Newtown,  in  Fairfield  County,  where  his  early 
boyhood  was  passed.  When  he  was  about  ten  years  of  age,  his 
parents  removed  to  the  city  of  New  York.  He  was  fitted  for  college 
by  the  Rev.  Dr.  BRONSON,  at  the  Episcopal  Academy,  of  Cheshire, 
and  was  graduated  at  Yale  College,  in  1825.  After  leaving  college, 
Mr.  NICHOLS  commenced  the  study  of  the  law,  in  the  office  of  SETH 
P.  STAPLES,  Esq.,  of  New  York,  and  was  also  for  some  time  a 
member  of  the  Law  School  at  Litchfield,  under  Judge  GOULD.  He 
was  admitted  to  the  bar  at  Albany,  in  October,  1828.  In  the  spring 
of  the  following  year  he  became  a  student  in  divinity,  and  in  the 
ensuing  autumn  entered  the  Middle  Class  of  the  General  Episcopal 
Theological  Seminary,  in  the  city  of  New  York.  In  July,  1831, 
he  completed  his  theological  course  of  study,  and  immediately  after 
was  ordained  by  the  Right  Rev.  Bishop  BENJAMIN  TREADWELL 
ONDERDONK. 

During  the  first  year  of  his  ministry,  Mr.  NICHOLS  was  associated 
with  the  late  venerable  Bishop  MOORE,  in  the  charge  of  the  Monu 
mental  Church,  at  Richmond,  in  Virginia.  He  was  subsequently, 
for  several  years,  Rector  of  Christ  Church,  at  Greenwich,  in  Con 
necticut  ;  and  is  now  an  Assistant  Minister  of  Trinity  Church,  in 
New  Haven. 

The  greater  part  of  the  published  poetical  writings  of  Mr.  NICHOLS 
consists  of  fugitive  compositions,  communicated  some  years  since  to 
various  periodicals  of  the  day.  In  August,  1841,  he  delivered  a 
poem  entitled  "  The  Future,"  before  the  Associate  Alumni  of  Wash 
ington  College,  at  Hartford,  which  was  published  at  their  request. 
Mr.  NICHOLS  evidently  paints  from  nature,  and  his  poems  are  pervaded 
by  the  sentiments  of  a  warm  and  affectionate  heart.  In  his  occa 
sional  allusions  to  characters  and  events,  and  his  descriptions  of 
familiar  scenes,  the  reader  will  recognize  some  of  the  qualities  of  a 
very  high  order  of  poetry. 


340 


POETS      OF     CONNECTICUT. 


JOSEPHINE.* 

'T  is  evening,  on  a  purple  southern  sea  : 
The  large  thick  stars,  in  tropic  purity, 
Are  flashing  from  the  blue,  low-bending  skies, 
On  a  lone  isle,  that  green  beneath  them  lies. 
Out  in  full  blossom  shine  the  orange  groves, 
And  lo  !  amid  their  bowers  a  maiden  roves — 
A  fair,  West  Indian  girl ;  then  takes  her  seat 
To  breathe  the  fragrance  of  those  flowers  so  sweet. 
She  touches  her  guitar,  and  with  a  strain 
Of  superhuman  softness,  doth  enchain 
The  winds  in  silence :  smiling  in  their  sleep, 
Repose  the  murmuring  billows  of  the  deep. 
To  join  her,  soon  comes  forth  a  virgin  band 
Of  her  companions,  tripping  hand  in  hand. 
A  slave  strikes  up  the  tambourine,  and  she 
Floats  in  the  dance  to  some  wild  island  glee  ; 
In  peerless  elegance  that  maid  moves  on, 
Of  all  her  sex,  in  grace,  the  paragon. 
Her  dark  eye  kindles  with  imperial  lig'ht, 
A  golden  crown  is  glittering  in  her  sight, 
For  some  gray  prophetess  foretold,  ere  now, 
A  diadem  should  decorate  her  brow. 

Again,  broad  day-light  sheds  its  sunny  smile 
Within  a  tall  cathedral's  ancient  pile  ; 
Along  the  aisles,  brave  men,  line  after  line, 
Beneath  their  banners  in  bright  armor  shine  ; 
The  galleries  gleam  with  beauty's  jewelled  forms, 
And  warlike  music  every  bosom  warms. 
It  ceases  :  all  direct  their  anxious  gaze 
To  the  high  altar,  where,  amid  the  blaze 
Of  princesses  and  princes,  stand  alone 
A  man  and  woman,  each  before  a  throne  : 
He,  the  stern  chief,  whose  footsteps  shook  the  globe ; 
She,  in  that  long  and  royal  crimson  robe, 
Is  that  same  fair  West  Indian.     One  rich  crown 
He  puts  on  his  own  brow ;  then,  she  kneels  down, 

*  From  the  "Future." 


And  modestly,  from  his  small  hand,  receives 
Another  crown — a  wreath  of  golden  leaves, 
Upon  her  forehead  ;  while  his  eagle  glance, 
Reflecting  her's,  proclaims  her  Queen  of  France. 
The  trumpet  peals  it  forth  in  joyous  swells, 
And  far  as  her  green  isle  the  tidings  tells. 

Again,  in  Malmaison,  that  lady  's  seen, 
A  wife,  yet  no  wife  ;  queen,  yet  not  a  queen. 
If  nature's  charms  could  ever  banish  grief, 
The  heaviest  bosom  there  might  find  relief: 
The  garden  blooms,  the  fountain  flows  in  vain ; 
Not  Eden's  scenery  could  asuage  her  pain. 
He,  who  his  greatness  owed  to  her  alone, 
Has  called  another  bride  to  share  his  throne ! 
Discarded,  she  loves  still,  and  woman's  tears 
She  sheds,  when  of  her  hero's  fall  she  hears. 
Too  sharp  the  trial !     Pensive,  day  by  day, 
She  sits,  and  pines,  at  last,  her  life  away. 
Now  cold,  and  closed  in  death's  meek  sleep  her  eyes, 
Pale  on  her  bier,  the  lovely  Empress  lies  ! 
White  as  her  shroud,  her  crossed  hands  calmly  rest 
Upon  that  generous  and  confiding  breast. 
There,  her  lone  orphans  love's  last  vigil  keep, 
And  earth's  great  kings  pass  by,  and  muse  and  weep. 
Oh,  what  young  maiden  here  would  be  a  queen, 
Who  thinks  of  thy  sad  fate,  poor  JOSEPHINE  ! 
Who  would  not  rather,  than  of  courts  the  pride, 
Be  gathering  berries  on  the  mountain  side  ? 


A  CONNECTICUT    CHRISTMAS    EVE. 
Slow  twilight  veils  the  landscape's  robe  of  white  ; 

The  little  snow-bird  shuts  its  downy  wing ; 
The  cottage  tapers  twinkle  red  and  bright, 

Through  azure  mists  from  frozen  brook  and  spring ; 
And  the  wood-cutter,  his  thatched  home  in  sight, 

Makes  the  still  air  with  his  clear  whistle  ring ; 
And  hark !  methinks  I  hear  the  village  bell, 
O'er  all  the  country  its  glad  summons  swell. 


342  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Sweet  talisman  of  heaven,  how  each  farm  roof 

Stirs  at  thy  call !     The  black,  huge,  blazing  hearth 

Is  quenched,  itself  a  room  full  large  enough; 
The  household,  tiptoe  with  the  season's  mirth, 

Put  on  neat  garments,  their  own  cunning  woof; 
And  boys  and  girls  to  tinkling  sleighs  rush  forth ; 

While  sire  and  spouse  upon  the  old  steed  haste, 

She  snug  behind,  fast  holding  by  his  waist. 

O'er  crusted  drifts  they  glide,  fleet  as  the  wind, 
Cutting  with  grating  crush  the  virgin  snow — 

Their  eyes  with  sparkling  splendor  almost  blind 
Of  the  pure  atmosphere's  strange  scarlet  glow ; 

And  merry  music  animates  the  mind 
From  ceaseless  bells,  all  chiming  in  a  row, 

Till,  dashing  proudly  through  the  village  street, 

Around  the  Church,  from  far  and  wide  they  meet. 

Meanwhile  the  well-clad  town's-folk  thither  stream, 
And  face,  with  breaths  that  smoke,  the  flaky  breeze, 

Admiring  oft  the  scintillating  gleam 

And  diamond  vista  of  ice-jewelled  trees, 

That,  like  celestial  groves,  in  blossom  seem ; 
How  do  their  hues  the  sportive  children  please, 

Who  little  think  that,  like  their  brilliant  ray, 

Is  youth's  fond  dream,  illusive  though  so  gay ! 

How  beautiful  upon  the  hill-top  shines 
The  white  illuminated  house  of  GOD  ! 

A  thousand  lights,  that  burn  in  graceful  lines, 

Rich  lustre  pour  from  each  arched  window  broad ; 

And  crystal  icicles,  like  gems  in  mines, 
Flash  on  the  eaves,  and  a  soft  halo  flood 

Gilds  the  tall  steeple,  which,  at  this  bright  hour, 

Points  to  the  skies  like  some  fair  ivory  tower. 

They  enter,  and  oh !  what  a  lovely  .scene 

Dazzles  the  vision !     Garlands  of  ground-pine, 

Festoons  of  ivy,  stars  of  evergreen, 

Adorn  the  walls  and  round  the  pillars  twine ! 

Faces  on  faces  piled,  with  smiles  serene, 

Watch  the  wreathed  chancel  and  bright  altar-shrine, 


REV.    JOSEPH     H.     NICHOLS. 

s_r\^-^-\_/-^-v_^v-vJ'--^-v_^^--v>-x»/-x_^^ 

Where,  meek,  with  linen  robe  and  silver  hair, 
The  patriarch  priest  turns  o'er  the  Book  of  Prayer. 

He  speaks.     At  once,  with  solemn  rush,  all  stand, 
Then,  kneeling,  his  mild  accents  loud  repeat, 

Or  listen,  while,  with  countenance  so  bland, 
He  reads  how  once  a  radiant  angel,  sweet 

Of  voice,  escorted  by  a  harping  band, 
Judea's  shepherds  came  by  night  to  greet 

With  tidings,  as  he  shook  his  wings  impearled, 

Of  MARY'S  babe,  the  Saviour  of  the  world ! 

The  village  maids,  in  spotless  raiment  dressed, 
Then  strike  the  anthem  of  enchanting  praise  ; 

When  closed,  the  pastor,  now  in  sable  vest, 
Ascends  the  pulpit,  and,  discoursing,  sways 

With  tender  words  the  soul-fixed  hearer's  breast ; 
And  as  the  georgeous  candlestick's  clear  blaze 

Beams  on  his  face,  his  up-raised  eyes  oft  swell 

With  tears  of  love  for  good  EMMANUEL. 

The  parting  hymn  and  parting  benison 
Soon  follow,  and  the  holy  duties  close. 

How  pour  the  people  out !  again  the  tune 

Of  bells  resounds  as  each  one  homeward  goes, 

Led  by  the  spangled  sky's  late  risen  moon, 
That  now,  methinks,  unusual  lustre  throws 

Toward  the  East,  as  if  it  saw  the  Star 

Of  Bethlehem,  through  the  purple  depths  afar. 

Once  more  the  hearth-stone  brightens.     Seated  round 
With  hand  up  to  the  cheek,  the  faggot  fire, 

They  quaff  the  festal  bowl  with  spices  crowned, 
And,  after  joining  the  gray  pious  sire 

In  prayer  and  hymn  of  spiritual  sound, 
To  balmy  rest  the  family  retire, 

And  sleep  the  Christian's  slumber,  calm  and  mute, 

Save  to  the  dream-note  of  some  seraph's  lute. 

How  many  hearts  to-night,  the  wide  world  o'er, 
Are  happy  with  the  old  returning  glee  ! 

Exiles  for  Heaven  on  India's  palmy  shore, 
The  sailor  tossing  on  the  foam-lit  sea, 


343 


344  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Lone  emigrants  where  inland  oceans  roar, 

And  island  girls  beneath  the  orange  tree — 
All  share  the  bliss  with  which  thy  children  heave, 
Hills  of  my  fathers !  this  glad  Christmas  Eve. 

And  ye,  descendants  of  the  men  who  knew 
And  loved  the  good  and  great  of  other  days — 

Accomplished  JOHNSON  ;  BEACH,  the  bold  and  true  ; 
And  mitred  SEABURY,  scorning  human  praise 

Or  censure  ;  champions  who  their  brave  swords  drew 
For  Zion,  and  her  ancient  rites  and  ways ; 

Oh,  keep  their  hallowed  customs,  keep  this  night, 

Long  as  your  mountains  stand,  or  streams  roll  bright ! 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  VILLAGE. 
There  stand  the  holy  spires  of  prayer, 

Devoutly  pointing  to  the  skies, 
As  if  from  every  earthly  care 

The  soul  of  man  should  heaven-ward  rise ; 
And  as  the  sun-gilt  windows  gleam, 

In  their  unstained  transparency, 
Chaste  thoughts  come  o'er  me  as  I  dream 

Of  that  soft  hour  when,  tenderly, 
The  gray -haired  pastor  crossed  my  brow 
With  water  from  the  font  of  snow. 

How  sweetly  every  mansion  lifts 

Its  clear  white  front  among  the  trees, 
While  the  blue  smoke,  in  curly  drifts, 

Sails  off  before  the  healthy  breeze. 
Behind  each  roof  long  meadows  slope 

In  swards  that  blush  with  clover  blossoms  ; 
And  new-washed  clothes  swing  on  the  rope, 

Just  hung  by  maids  with  buoyant  bosoms  ; 
And  there  the  yellow  street  is  seen 
Ribboned  both  sides  with  virgin  green. 

With  what  a  gay  and  tidy  air 

The  tavern  shows  its  painted  sign, 

Causing  each  traveller  to  stare 
And  cypher  out  the  gold-leaf  line. 


REV.     JOSEPH     H.     NICHOLS. 

And  yonder  is  the  merchant's  stand, 
Where,  on  the  benches  round  the  door, 

Gather  the  story-telling  band, 
And  all  burst  out  in  hearty  roar 

As  some  wild  wag,  at  his  tongue's  rote 

Deals  the  convulsive  anecdote. 

Why  is  the  dust  in  such  a  rage  ? 

It  is  the  yearly  caravan 
Of  pedlars,  on  their  pilgrimage 

To  southern  marts  ;  full  of  japan, 
And  tin,  and  wooden  furniture, 

That  try  to  charm  the  passing  eye  ; 
And  spices  which,  I  'm  very  sure, 

Ne'er  saw  the  shores  of  Araby  ; 
Well  skilled  in  that  smooth  eloquence 
Are  they,  which  steals  away  your  pence. 

Close  in  the  hollow  of  yon  hill 

The  district  school-house  wins  the  view, 
Where  jabbering  urchins  'gainst  their  will 

In  swinging  rows  their  tasks  pursue. 
And  there  's  the  turf  on  which  they  play, 

And  tan  their  open-collared  necks  ; 
And  there's  the  brook,  where,  every  day, 

Their  paper  barks  meet  sad  shipwrecks 
Of  little  hopes,  that  now  endure 
The  coming  world  in  miniature. 

These  scenes  are  pleasant,  but  there  's  one 

More  precious  to  the  heart  than  all : 
It  is  when  on  the  ear  the  tune 

Of  mellow  bells,  with  gentle  fall, 
Proclaims  that  Sunday  morn  has  come. 

Then  every  road  arid  path  's  alive 
WTith  young  and  old — none  stay  at  home, 

But,  clad  in  best  attire,  all  strive 
To  fill  their  places,  lest  they  hear 
In  private  from  the  minister. 

And  there,  on  yonder  rising  ground, 
The  grave-yard  lies,  retired  and  lone ; 


345 


r-—**s-^r*~r*^~*^^-*^^s-^~^r^^~>^-*~r-*-j~*~^^ 

346  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

->^-v_^-N_^>_/-^^-^_^^->^^-^^_^^-*^-v_^_x->_^ 

And  o'er  each  green  and  narrow  mound 
Stands  a  white  monumental  stone. 

Pastors  and  people  here  repose, 

Husband  and  wife,  too,  side  by  side ; 

And  children  rest  in  household  rows, 
Asleep  in  HIM  who  for  them  died. 

There,  from  the  world  thy  footstep  turn, 

And  sweetly  sad,  a  lesson  learn. 

And  when,  from  some  wood-waving  height, 

Upon  the  moss  at  leisure  thrown, 
I  view  the  sylvan  shade  and  light, 

And  know  the  landscape  is  my  own 
Dear  native  earth !  when  I  behold 

The  orchard-lawn,  the  auburn  wheat, 
The  mill,  the  foaming  fall  of  gold, 

And  hear  the  pastoral  song  and  bleat, 
Oh,  how  I  bless,  with  streaming  eyes, 
That  HEAVEN  which  gave  the  paradise ! 


THE  FALLS   OF  THE  HOUSATONIC. 

Wild  cataract  of  the  woods,  how  bright 

Thy  sheet  of  liquid  silver  gleams 
Through  the  green  cedars,  on  my  sight, 

Like  a  tall  angel's  spear,  in  dreams. 
And  see !  the  snowy  wreath  of  spray, 

Meet  for  a  spotless  virgin's  shroud, 
Curl  up  the  clear  blue  vault  away 

To  form  the  future  tempest-cloud. 

Through  mountain  shores,  with  red  and  gold 

Leaves  at  this  autumn  hour  arrayed, 
Winds  the  swift  river,  dark  and  bold, 

O'er  rocks  in  many  a  white  cascade, 
Till,  sweeping  past,  mid  froth  and  surge, 

The  rocky  islets  strewn  around, 
To  where  the  willows  kiss  the  verge, 

Thou  tumblest  off,  bound  after  bound ! 


r 


REV.     JOSEPH     H.    NICHOLS. 

Here  as  we  gaze,  I  and  my  friend, 

(Two  youths  with  roses  on  our  cheeks,) 
'T  is  sweet,  but  awful,  thus  to  bend 

Over  the  wonder,  as  it  speaks 
Like  a  young  earthquake,  and  to  feel 

A  nameless  grandeur  swell  the  soul 
With  joy  that  makes  the  senses  reel, 

Half  wishing  in  the  flood  to  roll. 

Yes,  thou  art  fair ;  and  fain  would  I, 

Were  mine  no  love,  no  kindred  true, 
Alone  here  live,  alone  here  die, 

Were  I  but  worthy,  too,  of  you. 
For,  oh,  were  mortals  half  so  fair 

And  beautiful  as  their  abodes, 
Woman  an  angel's  face  would  wear. 

And  man  the  majesty  of  gods. 

Each  morning  sun  a  rainbow  builds 

Of  pink,  across  thy  sparkling  foam, 
That  every  tossing  billow  gilds 

With  pearls  to  deck  its  ocean-home. 
Too  soon  it  fades,  unseen  by  all, 

Save  the  rude  woodman  of  the  hill, 
Or  when,  for  water  to  the  fall, 

Trips  the  glad  damsel  of  the  mill. 

And  oft,  with  a  peculiar  awe, 

Thou  com'st  the  moss-green  rocks  to  lash 
When  the  soft  vernal  breezes  thaw 

The  long  chained  river,  at  one  crash 
Of  thunder,  it  breaks  up  and  roars, 

Till  echoing  caverns  wake  from  sleep, 
As  at  a  mammoth's  voice,  and  pours 

An  ice-piled  deluge  down  thy  steep. 

Fall  of  the  forest !  on  a  wild 

Romantic  pilgrimage  I  come 
To  see  thy  face,  for,  from  a  child, 

My  footsteps  ever  loved  to  roam 


348  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Places  untrod  ;  yet,  why  hast  thou 
In  sylvan  beauty  rolled  so  long, 

And  not  a  poet's  tongue,  ere  now, 
Has  told  his  lyre  thy  praise  in  song  ? 

The  scarlet  and  the  yellow  groves, 

Like  radiant  seraphim  in  arms  ; 
The  ever-green  and  laurel  coves, 

The  twilight  grotto,  and  the  swarms 
Of  humming  wood-bees,  with  the  strain 

Of  the  last  robin's  mellow  flute. 
Are,  round  thy  flood,  as  sweet  again 

As  the  Arcadian  shade  and  lute. 

Here,  may  the  young  bard  sing  and  learn 

Nature's  own  lofty  minstrelsy  ; 
Here,  may  his  blooming  genius  earn 

A  name  too  glorious  to  die. 
And  should  he  sigh,  thus  all  apart, 

For  woman's  voice  his  soul  to  thrill, 
(Since  there  's  in  every  youthful  heart 

A  void  which  she  alone  can  fill ;) 

Dark  spirit  of  an  Indian  maid ! 

Rise,  with  thy  basket  filled  with  flowers, 
And  lead  thy  dappled  fawn's  meek  shade, 

(The  fawn  thou  fed'st  in  mortal  hours  ;) 
Or,  make  the  rainbow  thy  canoe, 

And  glide  along  thy  native  river, 
And  warble  forth  some  ditty  true 

Of  those  who  wore  the  bow  and  quiver. 

Wild  cataract  of  the  woods,  adieu ! 

Our  names  we  carved  upon  the  tree 
Whose  token-leaf  I  bear  unto 

My  own  fair  city  by  the  sea. 
Pale  it  may  grow,  but  thou  in  green 

Remembrance  ever  fresh  shalt  dwell ; 
For  to  so  picturesque  a  scene, 

Before,  I  never  sang  farewell ! 


HUGH    PETERS. 

[Born  1807.    Died  1831.] 

HUGH  PETERS  was  born  at  Hebron,  in  Tolland  County,  on  the 
30th  of  January,  1807.  He  was  a  son  of  the  late  Hon.  JOHN  T. 
PETERS,  for  many  years  a  Judge  of  the  Superior  Court  in  Connecticut. 
In  1817,  Judge  PETERS  removed  to  Hartford,  and  there  the  subject 
of  our  sketch  pursued  his  preparatory  studies  at  the  "  Grammar 
School."  He  entered  Yale  College,  where  he  was  graduated  in 
1826,  and  afterward  became  a  student  at  law  in  the  office  of  his 
father,  in  Hartford.  In  1828,  he  was  admitted  to  the  bar,  and  early 
in  the  following  year  removed  to  Cincinnati,  in  Ohio.  The  laws  of 
Ohio  requiring  a  longer  term  of  legal  study  than  those  of  Connecticut, 
PETERS  became  again  a  student,  for  the  requisite  period,  and,  in  1830, 
commenced  the  practice  of  his  profession.  He  seemed  peculiarly 
fitted  for  the  bar,  and  his  prospects  were  highly  flattering,  when, 
during  the  following  summer,  his  friends  were  shocked  at  news  of 
his  sudden  death.  The  circumstances  of  his  decease  were  of  a 
painful  character,  and  not  wholly  devoid  of  mystery.  His  body  was 
found  in  the  Ohio  river,  on  the  morning  of  the  ninth  day  of  June.  It 
is  supposed  that,  disturbed  and  harassed  by  business,  he  arose  in  his 
sleep,  as  he  had  done  the  night  before,  and  in  this  state  of  uncon 
sciousness  wandered  to  the  river,  where  he  met  his  melancholy  fate. 
The  event  was  deeply  deplored,  not  only  by  his  friends  in  Connecti 
cut,  but  by  the  citizens  of  his  adopted  home,  to  many  of  whom  he 
had  become  especially  endeared.  A  meeting  was  held  of  the  mem 
bers  of  the  bar  of  Cincinnati,  and  resolutions  were  passed,  expressive 
of  the  highest  respect  for  the  worth  of  their  deceased  friend  and 
associate,  and  of  the  sincerest  sorrow  for  his  early  departure.  The 
character  of  Mr.  PETERS  was  in  every  way  calculated  to  endear  him 
to  his  acquaintances.  He  possessed  an  amiable  temper,  and  his 
manners,  while  they  were  dignified,  were  also  conciliatory.  He 
was  ardent  and  firm  in  his  attachments,  and  his  friends  cherished  in 
return  an  enthusiastic  regard  for  him,  which  now  embalms  his  name 
in  their  memory. 

Mr.  PETERS  commenced  writing  verse  for  the  press  while  he  was 
in  college,  but  was  afterward  principally  known  as  a  correspondent 
of  the  "  New  England  Weekly  Review."  He  wrote  many  articles 
for  this  journal ;  but  perhaps  a  series  of  "  Yankee  Lyrics,"  remark 
able  for  humorous  conceit  and  drollery  of  versification,  attracted 


350  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

j  more  attention  than  any  others,  while  he  resided  in  Hartford.     His 

\  farewell  to  Connecticut,  "  My  Native  Land,"  written  on  Long  Island 

Sound,  is  decidedly  the  best  poem  which  he  ever  wrote.     It  breathes 

the  noblest  sentiments  of  patriotic  devotion,  and  is  pervaded  by  a 

tone  of  feeling  which  commends  it  to  all  hearts. 


MY    NATIVE    LAND. 

"  My  native  land,  good  night." — BYRON. 

The  boat  swings  from  the  pebbled  shore,: 

And  proudly  drives  her  prow  ; 
The  crested  waves  roll  up  before, 
Yon  dark  gray  land  I  see  no  more, 

How  sweet  thou  seemest  now ! 
Thou  dark  gray  land,  my  native  land, 

Thou  land  of  rock  and  pine, 
I  'm  speeding  from  thy  golden  sand ; 
But  can  I  wave  a  farewell  hand 

To  such  a  shore  as  thine  ? 

I  've  gazed  upon  the  golden  cloud 

Which  shades  thine  emerald  sod ; 
Thy  hills,  which  Freedom's  share  hath  ploughed, 
Which  nurse  a  race  that  have  not  bowed 

Their  knee  to  aught  but  GOD  ; 
Thy  mountain  floods  which  proudly  fling 

Their  waters  to  the  fall, 
Thy  birds,  which  cut  with  rushing  wing 
The  sky  that  greets  thy  coming  spring, 

And  thought  thy  glories  small. 

But  now  ye  've  shrunk  to  yon  blue  line 

Between  the  sky  and  sea, 
I  feel,  sweet  home,  that  thou  art  mine, 
I  feel  my  bosom  cling  to  thine, 

That  I  am  part  of  thee. 
I  see  thee  blended  with  the  wave, 

As  children  see  the  earth 
Close  up  a  sainted  mother's  grave ; 
They  weep  for  her  they  cannot  save, 

And  feel  her  holy  worth. 


HUGH     PETERS. 

Thou  mountain  land,  thou  land  of  rock, 

I  'm  proud  to  call  thee  free  ; 
Thy  sons  are  of  the  pilgrim  stock, 
And  nerved  like  those  who  stood  the  shock 

At  old  Thermopylae. 
The  laurel  wreaths  their  fathers  won, 

The  children  wear  them  still ; 
Proud  deeds  those  iron  men  have  done  ; 
They  fought  and  won  at  Bennington, 

And  bled  at  Bunker  Hill. 

There  's  grandeur  in  the  lightning  stroke 

That  rives  thy  mountain  ash  ; 
There  's  glory  in  thy  giant  oak, 
And  rainbow  beauty  in  the  smoke 

Where  crystal  waters  dash  : 
There  's  music  in  thy  winter  blast 

That  sweeps  the  hollow  glen  ; 
Less  sturdy  sons  would  shrink  aghast 
From  piercing  winds  like  those  thou  hast 

To  nurse  thine  iron  men. 

And  thou  hast  gems — aye,  living  pearls, 

And  flowers  of  Eden  hue  : 
Thy  loveliest  are  thy  bright-eyed  girls, 
Of  fairy  forms  and  elfin  curls, 

And  smiles  like  Hermon's  dew  : 
They  've  hearts  like  those  they  're  born  to  wed, 

Too  proud  to  nurse  a  slave ; 
They  'd  scorn  to  share  a  monarch's  bed, 
And  sooner  lay  their  angel  head 

Deep  in  their  humble  grave. 

X 

And  I  have  left  thee,  home,  alone, 

A  pilgrim  from  thy  shore  ; 
The  wind  goes  by  with  hollow  moan, 
I  hear  it  sigh  a  warning  tone, 

"  You  see  your  home  no  more." 
I  'm  cast  upon  the  world's  wide  sea, 

Torn  like  an  ocean-weed  ; 


351 


POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

I  'm  cast  away,  far,  far  from  thee  ; 
I  feel  a  thing  I  cannot  be, 
A  bruised  and  broken  reed. 

Farewell,  my  native  land,  farewell ! 

That  wave  has  hid  thee  now  ; 
My  heart  is  bowed  as  with  a  spell ; 
This  rending  pang! — would  I  could  tell 

What  ails  my  throbbing  brow ! 
One  look  upon  that  fading  streak 

Which  bounds  yon  eastern  sky ; 
One  tear  to  cool  my  burning  cheek ; 
And  then  a  word  I  cannot  speak — 

"  My  native  land,  Good  bye  ! " 


THE    PARTING. 

Their  bark  is  out  upon  the  sea, 

She  leaps  across  the  tide : 
The  flashing  waves  dash  joyously 

Their  spray  upon  her  side  : 
As  if  a  bird,  before  the  breeze 

She  spreads  her  snowy  wings ; 
And,  breaking  through  the  crested  seas, 

How  beautiful  she  springs  ! 

The  deep  blue  sky  above  her  path 

Is  cloudless,  and  the  air 
That  pure  and  spicy  fragrance  hath 

Which  Ceylon's  breezes  bear  ; 
And  though  she  seems  a  shadowless 

And  phantom  thing,  in  sport, 
Her  freight  I  ween  is  Happiness, 

And  heaven  her  far-off  port. 

Mild,  tearful  eyes  are  gazing  now 

Upon  that  fleeting  ship, 
And  here,  perhaps  an  ashy  brow, 

And  there  a  trembling  lip, 


HUGH     PETERS. 

Are  tokens  of  the  agony, 

The  pangs  it  costs  to  sever 
A  mother  from  her  first  born  child, 

To  say — farewell,  for  ever. 

And  they  who  sail  yon  fading  bark 

Have  turned  a  yearning  eye 
To  the  far  land  which  seems  a  line 

Between  the  sea  and  sky. 
And  as  that  land  blends  with  the  sea, 

Like  clouds  in  sunset  light, 
A  soft,  low  voice  breathes  on  the  wind, 

"  My  native  land,  good  night," 

And  they  who  stand  upon  the  shore, 

And  bend  them  o'er  the  sea, 
To  catch  the  last,  faint  shadow  of 

The  shrouds'  dim  tracery, 
I  ween  if  one  could  hear  the  sigh, 

Could  catch  the  mother's  tone, 
He  'd  hear  it  say,  "  Good  night,  good  night, 

My  beautiful,  my  own." 

That  ship  is  gone — lost  to  the  eye  ; 

But  still  a  freshening  breeze 
Is  o'er  her  wake,  and  drives  her  on 

Through  smooth  and  pleasant  seas. 
Right  onward  thus,  she  will  dash  on, 

Though  tempests  shake  the  air, 
For  hearts  that  fear  not  Ocean's  wrath 

I  ween  will  aye  be  there. 


353 


That  sea  is  Life  :  that  bark  is  but 

The  Hopes  of  wedded  Love  : 
The  wind  which  fills  its  swelling  sails 

I  trust  is  from  above. 
And  ever  may  its  progress  be 

Through  summer  seas  right  on, 
Till  blended  with  Eternity's 

Broad  ocean's  horizon. 


354  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

A   YANKEE    LYRIC. 

There  is,  in  famous  Yankee  land, 
A  class  of  men  ycleped  tin-pedlars, 
A  shrewd,  sarcastic  band 

Of  busy  meddlers : 

They  scour  the  country  through  and  through, 
Vending  their  wares,  tin  pots,  tin  pans, 
Tin  ovens,  dippers,  wash-bowls,  cans^ 
Tin  whistles,  kettles,  or  to  boil  or  stew, 
Tin  cullenders,  tin  nutmeg-graters, 
Tin  warming  platters  for  your  fish  and  'taters ! 

In  short, 
If  you  will  look  within 

His  cart, 
And  gaze  upon  the  tin 

Which  glitters  there, 
•       So  bright  and  fair, 
There  is  no  danger  in  defying 
You  to  go  off  without  buying. 

One  of  these  cunning,  keen-eyed  gentry 
Stopped  at  a  tavern  in  the  country, 

Just  before  night, 

And  called  for  bitters  for  himself,,  of  course, 
,         And  fodder  for  his  horse  x 

This  done,  our  worthy  wight 
Informed  the  landlord  that  his  purse  was  low, 
Quite  empty,  I  assure  you,  sir,  and  so 
I  wish  you  'd  take  your  pay 
In  something  in  my  way. 

Now  Boniface  supposed  himself  a  wag — 
And  when  he  saw  that  he  was  sucked, 
Was  not  dispirited,  but  plucked 

Up  courage  and  his  trowsers  too ! 
Quoth  he  t'  himself,  I  am  not  apt  to  brag, 

T  is  true, 

But  I  can  stick  a  feather  in  my  cap 
By  making  fun  of  this  same  Yankee  chap. 
"  Well,  my  good  friend, 
That  we  may  end 


HUGH     PETERS. 


This  troublesome  affair, 
I  '11  take  my  pay  in  ware, 
Provided  that  you  've  got  what  suits 

My  inclination." 
"  No  doubt  of  that,"  the  pedlar  cried, 

Sans  hesitation : 

"  Well,  bring  us  in  a  pair  of  good  tin  boots  ! " 
"  Tin  boots  ! "     Our  Jonathan  espied 

His  landlord's  spindle  shanks, 
And  giving  his  good  Genius  thanks 

For  the  suggestion, 

Ran  out,  returned,  and  then — "  by  goles  ! 
Yes,  here  's  a  pair  of  candle-moulds  ! 
They  '11  fit  you  without  question ! " 


ROBERT    DALE    OWEN. 

Great  OWEN,  of  Lanark,  good  night ! 

Is  the  pride  of  thy  hopes  all  defeated  1 
Hast  thou  gone  to  recover  thy  might  ? 

Or,  stripped  of  thy  laurels,  retreated  ? 

Has  the  strength  of  thy  spirit  been  broken 
By  CAMPBELL,  the  doughty,  in  fight  ? 

We  bid  thee  farewell,  by  this  token — 
Great  OWEN,  of  Lanark,  good  night ! 

Great  OWEN,  of  Lanark !  you  came 
Across  the  great  sea  to  enlighten 

Our  land,  and  to  gather  a  fame 
For  Futurity's  fingers  to  brighten. 

Great  OWEN,  of  Lanark,  thy  wealth, 
In  the  dark  cause  of  Evil  expended, 

Has  gained  neither  pleasure  nor  health, 
But  the  whole  in  a  bubble  has  ended. 

Alas  !  all  thy  visions  have  vanished  ; 

Thy  glories  have  taken  their  flight ; 
To  thy  own  native  rocks  thou  art  banished ; 

Great  OWEN,  of  Lanark,  good  night ! 


356  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

"^-^-^-s-**s-*~r^-\_s-^^^_s-^~^-s^ 

SONNET    AD    POETAS. 

"Quod  si  me  lyricis  vatibus  inseres. 
Sublimi  feriam  sidera  vertice." 

Ye  are  a  wise  and  goodly  company ; 

A  very  worthy,  noble  brotherhood ; 

Nectar  your  drink,  Ambrosia  your  food  ; 
Ye  cannot  fail  of  immortality ! 
When  ye  would  sleep,  sweet  will  your  slumbering  be, 

For  Musa  'neath  you  spreads  a  couch  of  down, 

Or  airy  gossamer,  with  rose  leaves  strown, 
Fit  hovering  place  for  dreams  of  fantasy ; 
And  when  ye  wake,  if  ye  would  music  have, 

For  you  APOLLO  wakes  his  echoing  strings  ; 

Or  would  ye  ride,  Pegasus  spreads  his  wings, 
And  off  ye  fly  through  air,  o'er  earth  and  wave ! 
Oh  happy  band !  I  '11  "  give  you  honor  due," 
If  ye  will  deign  admit  me  of  your  crew ! 


TO    THE    MOON. 

Hail,  "  great  Diana,"  "  virgin  Queen  of  night ! " 
"  Pale,  silent  orb,"  "  mild  Luna,"  new  or  full, 
Crescent  or  gibbous  !  if  thought  not  too  dull, 

List  to  the  prayer  of  a  poor  rhyming  wight ! 

Behold  thy  servant  in  a  piteous  plight ! 
My  soul  is  sad,  my  coat  is  growing  old ; 
My  heart  is  heavy,  and  my  heels  are  cold ; 

Both  in  and  out  I  am  a  sorry  sight ; 

Ideas  and  ink  are  gone — I  cannot  write — 
And  when  I  could,  they  said  I  wTas  a  loon 
For  offering  incense  at  thy  shrine,  Oh  Moon ! 

They  call  me  mad,  and  that  unmans  me  quite : 

Regina,  hear  me  !  if  I  'm  not  a  dunce, 

Moonstrike  my  brain,  and  make  me  so  at  once ! 


JAMES      OTIS     ROCKWELL. 


JAMES    OTIS    ROCKWELL. 

[Born  1807.     Died  1831.] 

JAMES  OTIS  ROCKWELL,  son  of  DANIEL  ROCKWELL,  was  born  at 
Lebanon,  in  the  year  1807.  His  parents  were  in  humble  circum 
stances,  and  his  advantages  for  education  very  much  restricted. 
While  quite  young,  he  resided  for  some  time  at  Patterson,  in  New 
Jersey,  if  we  have  been  rightly  informed,  where  he  was  employed  in 
a  cotton  manufactory.  When  he  had  reached  his  fourteenth  or 
fifteenth  year,  upon  the  removal  of  his  family  to  the  vicinity  of 
Manlius,  in  New  York,  ROCKWELL  was  apprenticed  to  MERRELL  & 
HASTINGS,  Printers,  at  Utica.  It  was  here,  amid  congenial  pursuits, 
that  his  mind  began  to  expand,  and  his  poetical  talents  to  develope 
themselves.  He  very  soon  commenced  writing  for  the  press,  and 
the  reception  which  his  articles  met  served  to  incite  still  more  his 
ambition. 

At  eighteen  years  of  age,  ROCKWELL  left  Utica,  having  acquired  a 
degree  of  reputation  by  his  poetical  writings,  and,  after  a  temporary 
residence  in  New  York,  removed  to  Boston.  Here  he  worked  for  a 
time  as  a  printer,  and  was  subsequently  employed  as  an  assistant 
editor  of  the  "  Boston  Statesman."  In  the  autumn  of  1829,  he 
removed  to  Providence,  in  Rhode  Island,  and  assumed  the  charge  of 
the  "  Providence  Patriot."  He  continued  his  editorial  labors  until 
the  summer  of  1831,  when  a  "Card  Apologetic"  announced  to  the 
readers  of  the  "Patriot,"  that  its  editor  had  been  "accused  of  ill 
health — tried — found  guilty — and  condemned  over  to  the  physicians 
for  punishment."  The  following  number  was  arrayed  in  tokens  of 
mourning  for  his  death.  The  sad  event  was  deeply  deplored,  and 
there  was  a  general  expression  of  sorrow  by  the  periodicals  of  the 
day,  without  regard  to  partizan  partialities.  With  many  of  their 
editors  ROCKWELL  had  been  personally  acquainted,  and  to  all  he  was 
known  through  the  medium  of  his  verse.  Many  poetical  tributes  to 
his  memory  appeared  in  the  newspapers,  and,  from  a  beautiful  one 
written  by  his  friend  WHITTIER,  then  editor  of  the  "  New  England 
Weekly  Review,"  we  present  an  extract : 

The  turf  is  smooth  above  him !  and  this  rain 
Will  moisten  the  rent  roots,  and  summon  back 
The  perishing  life  of  its  green-bladed  grass  ; 
And  the  crushed  flower  will  lift  its  head  again 
Smilingly  unto  heaven,  as  if  it  kept 


358  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

No  vigil  with  the  dead !    Well !  it  is  meet 

That  the  green  grass  should  tremble,  and  the  flowers 

Blow  wild  about  his  resting-place.     His  mind 

Was  in  itself  a  flower,  but  half  disclosed — • 

A  bud  of  blessed  promise,  which  the  storm 

Visited  rudely,  and  the  passer  by 

Smote  down  in  wantonness. 

Nor  died  he  unlamented  !     To  his  grave 
The  beautiful  and  gifted  shall  go  up, 
And  muse  upon  the  sleeper ;  arid  young  lips 
Shall  murmur,  in  the  broken  tones  of  grief, 
His  own  sweet  melodies.     And  if  the  ear 
Of  the  freed  spirit  heedeth  aught  beneath 
The  brightness  of  its  new  inheritance, 
It  may  be  joyful  to  the  parted  one 
To  feel  that  earth  remembers  him  in  love  ! 

The  poems  of  ROCKWELL  are  highly  original,  and  discover  a  lively 
imagination.  They  sometimes  lack  definiteness,  and  fail  to  convey 
a  distinct  image  to  the  mind  of  the  reader.  They  betray,  moreover, 
a  want  of  finish  and  care.  But  they  are  striking  and  melodious 
compositions,  and,  despite  their  occasional  faults,  are  interesting 
proofs  of  talents  of  a  high  order,  whose  riper  developments  might 
have  guided  to  eminence. 


THE   ICEBERG. 

Twas  night ;  our  anchored  vessel  slept 

Out  on  the  glassy  sea  ; 
And  still  as  heaven  the  waters  kept, 

And  golden  bright,  as  he, 
The  setting  sun,  went  sinking  slow 

Beneath  the  eternal  wave  ; 
And  the  Ocean  seemed  a  pall  to  throw 

Over  the  monarch's  grave  ! 

There  was  no  motion  on  the  air 

To  raise  the  sleeper's  tress, 
And  no  wave-building  winds  were  there, 

On  Ocean's  loveliness ; 
But  Ocean  mingled  with  the  sky 

With  such  an  equal  hue, 
That  vainly  strove  the  'wildered  eye 

To  part  their  gold  and  blue. 


JAMES     OTIS     ROCKWELL.  359 

And  ne'er  a  ripple  of  the  sea 

Came  on  our  steady  gaze, 
Save  when  some  timorous  fish  stole  out 

To  bathe  in  the  golden  blaze  ; 
When,  floating  in  the  light  that  played 

All  over  the  resting  main, 
He  would  sink  beneath  the  wave,  and  dart 

To  his  deep  blue  home  again. 

Yet,  while  we  gazed  that  sunny  eve, 

Across  the  twinkling  deep, 
A  form  came  ploughing  the  golden  wave, 

And  rending  his  holy  sleep  : 
It  blushed  bright  red,  while  growing  on 

Our  fixed,  half-fearful  gaze  ; 
But  it  wandered  down,  with  its  golden  crown, 

And  its  robe  of  sunny  raysk 

It  seemed  like  molten  silver,  thrown 

Together  in  floating  flame  ; 
And  as  we  looked,  we  named  it  then, 

The  fount  whence  colors  came. 
There  were  rainbows,  furled  with  a  careless  grace, 

And  the  brightest  red  that  glows ; 
The  purple  amethyst  there  had  place, 

And  the  hues  of  the  full-blown  rose ; 

And  the  vivid  green,  as  the  sunlit  grass, 

Where  the  pleasant  rain  had  been, 
And  the  ideal  hues  that,  thought-like,  pass 

Through  the  minds  of  fanciful  men : 
They  beamed  full  clear  ;  and  that  form  moved  on, 

Like  one  from  a  burning  grave ; 
And  we  dared  not  think  it  a  real  thing, 

But  for  the  rustling  wave. 

The  sun  just  lingered  in  our  view 

From  the  burning  edge  of  Ocean, 
When  by  our  bark  that  bright  one  passed, 

With  a  deep-disturbing  motion  ; 


360  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

X^-^^/-N_/'-x^~^^^_^_^^'-N_^-N^'X^-s^^^^ 

The  far-down  waters  shrank  away, 
With  a  gurgling  rush  upheaving, 

And  the  lifted  waves  grew  wildly  pale, 
The  Ocean's  bosom  leaving. 

Yet,  as  it  passed  our  bending  stern, 

In  its  throne-like  glory  going, 
It  crushed  on  a  hidden  rock,  and  turned, 

Like  an  empire's  overthrowing ! 
The  uptorn  waves  rolled  hoar,  and  huge 

The  far-thrown  undulations 
Swelled  out  in  the  sun's  last,  lingering  smile, 

And  fell  like  battling  nations  ! 


THE  LOST  AT  SEA. 

Wife,  who,  in  thy  deep  devotion, 

Puttest  up  a  prayer  for  one 
Sailing  on  the  stormy  Ocean, 

Hope  no  more — his  course  is  done. 
Dream  not,  when  upon  thy  pillow 

That  he  slumbers  by  thy  side  ; 
For  his  corse,  beneath  the  billow, 

Heaveth  with  the  restless  tide. 


Children,  who,  as  sweet  flowers  growing, 

Laugh  amid  the  sorrowing  rains, 
Know  ye  not  that  clouds  are  throwing 

Shadows  on  your  sire's  remains  ? 
Where  the  hoarse  gray  surge  is  rolling 

With  a  mountain's  motion  on, 
Dream  ye  that  its  voice  is  tolling 

For  your  father,  lost  and  gone  ? 

When  the  sun  looked  on  the  water, 

As  a  hero  on  his  grave, 
Tinging  with  the  hue  of  slaughter 

Every  blue  and  leaping  wave, 


JAMES     OTIS    ROCKWELL. 


361 


Under  the  majestic  Ocean, 

Where  the  giant  currents  rolled, 

Slept  thy  sire,  without  emotion, 
Sweetly  by  a  beam  of  gold. 

And  the  violet  sunbeams  slanted, 

Wavering  through  the  crystal  deep, 
'Till   their  wonted  splendors  haunted 

Those  shut  eyelids  in  their  sleep : 
Sands,  like  crumbled  silver,  gleaming, 

Sparkled  in  his  raven  hair- 
But  the  sleep  that  knows  no  dreaming, 

Bound  him  in  its  silence  there  ! 

Children,  whose  meek  eyes,  inquiring, 

Linger  on  your  mother's  face, 
Know  ye  that  she  is  expiring, 

That  ye  are  an  orphan  race  ? 
GOD  be  with  you  on  the  morrow, 

Father,  mother,  both  no  more  ! 
One  within  a  grave  of  sorrow, 

One  upon  the  Ocean's  floor  ! 


THE  INTEMPERATE. 

Pray,  Mr.  Dramdrinker,  how  do  you  do  ? 

What  in  perdition's  the  matter  with  you  ? 

How  did  you  come  by  that  bruise  on  the  head  ? 

Why  are  your  eyes  so  infernally  red  ? 

Why  do  you  mutter  that  infidel  hymn? 

Why  do  you  tremble  in  every  limb  ? 

Who  has  done  this  ?  let  the  reason  be  shown, 

And  let  the  offender  be  pelted  with  stone ! 

And  the  Dramdrinker  said — If  you  listen  to  me, 

You  shall  hear  what  you  hear,  and  shall  see  what  you  see. 

I  had  a  father  :  the  grave  is  his  bed  ; 

I  had  a  mother :  she  sleeps  with  the  dead. 

Freely  I  wept,  when  they  left  me  alone, 

But  I  shed  all  my  tears  on  their  grave  and  their  stone ; 


I  planted  a  willow,  I  planted  a  yew, 

And  left  them  to  sleep  till  the  last  trumpet  blew ! 

Fortune  was  mine,  and  I  mounted  her  car, 

Pleasure  from  virtue  had  beckoned  me  far ; 

Onward  I  went,  like  an  avalanche  down, 

And  the  sunshine  of  fortune  was  changed  to  a  frown. 

Fortune  was  gone,  and  I  took  to  my  side 
A  young,  and  a  lovely,  and  beautiful  bride ! 
Her  I  entreated  with  coldness  and  scorn, 
Tarrying  back  till  the  break  of  the  morn, 
Slighting  her  kindness,  and  mocking  her  fears, 
Casting  a  blight  on  her  tenderest  years  : 
Sad,  and  neglected,  and  weary  I  left  her ; 
Sorrow  and  care  of  her  reason  bereft  her, 
Till,  like  a  star,  when  it  falls  from  its  pride, 
She  sunk  on  the  bosom  of  Misery,  and  died ! 

I  had  a  child,  and  it  grew  like  a  vine ; 

Fair  as  the  rose  of  Damascus  was  mine ; 

Fair,  and  I  watched  o'er  her  innocent  youth, 

As  an  angel  from  heaven  would  watch  over  truth. 

She  grew  like  her  mother  in  feature  and  form : 

Her  blue  eye  was  languid,  her  cheek  was  too  warm : 

Seventeen  Summers  had  shone  on  her  brow, 

The  seventeenth  Winter  beheld  her  laid  low! 

Yonder  they  sleep  in  their  graves,  side  by  side, 

A  father,  a  mother,  a  daughter,  a  bride ! 

When  they  had  left  me  I  stood  here  alone ; 
None  of  my  race  or  my  kindred  were  known ! 
Friends  all  forsaken,  and  hope  all  departed, 
Sad,  and  despairing,  and  desolate-hearted, 
Feeling  no  kindness  for  aught  that  was  human, 
Hated  by  man,  and  detested  by  woman, 
Bankrupt  in  fortune,  and  ruined  in  name — 
Onward  I  kept  in  the  pathway  of  shame ; 
And  till  this  hour,  since  my  father  went  down, 
My  brow  has  but  known  a  continual  frown ! 

Go  to  your  children,  and  tell  them  the  tale : 
Tell  them  his  cheek,  too,  was  lividly  pale  ; 


JAMES     OTIS     ROCKWELL. 

Tell  them  his  eye  was  all  blood-shot  arid  cold ; 

Tell  them  his  purse  was  a  stranger  to  gold ; 

Tell  them  he  passed  through  the  world  they  are  in 

The  victim  of  sorrow  and  misery  and  sin ; 

Tell  them  when  life's  shameful  conflicts  were  past 

In  horror  and  anguish  he  perished  at  last ! 


363 


THE   SUM  OF  LIFE. 
Searcher  of  gold !  whose  days  and  nights 

All  waste  away  in  anxious  care, 
Estranged  from  all  of  life's  delights, 
Unlearned  in  all  that  is  most  fair  ; 
Who  sailest  not  with  easy  glide, 
But  delvest  in  the  depths  of  tide, 
And  strugglest  in  the  foam  ; 
Oh,  come  and  view  this  land  of  graves, 
Death's  northern  sea  of  frozen  waves, 
And  mark  thee  out  thy  home. 

Lover  of    woman !  whose  sad  heart 
Wastes  like  a  fountain  in  the  sun, 
Clings  most  where  most  its  pain  does  start, 

Dies  by  the  light  it  lives  upon, 
Come  to  the  land  of  graves ;  for  here 
Are  beauty's  smile,  and  beauty's  tear, 

Gathered  in  holy  trust ; 
Here  slumber  forms  as  fair  as  those 
Whose  cheeks,  now  living,  shame  the  rose, 
Their  glory  turned  to  dust. 

Lover  of  fame  !  whose  foolish  thought 
Steals  onward  from  the  wave  of  time, 

Tell  me,  what  goodness  hath  it  brought, 
Atoning  for  that  restless  crime  ? 

The  spirit-mansion  desolate, 

And  open  to  the  storms  of  fate, 
The  absent  soul  in  fear — 

Bring  home  thy  thoughts,  and  come  with  me, 

And  see  where  all  thy  pride  must  be : 
Searcher  of  fame  !  look  here ! 


POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 


And  warrior !  thou  with  snowy  plume, 

That  goest  to  the  bugle's  call, 
Come  and  look  down — this  lonely  tomb 

Shall  hold  thee  and  thy  glories  all ; 
The  haughty  brow,  the  manly  frame, 
The  daring  deeds,  the  sounding  fame, 

Are  trophies  but  for  death ! 
And  millions,  who  have  toiled  like  thee, 
Are  stayed,  and  here  they  sleep ;  and  see, 
Does  glory  lend  them  breath  ? 


TO  THE  ICE  MOUNTAIN. 

Grave  of  waters  gone  to  rest ! 

Jewel,  dazzling  all  the  main  ! 
Father  of  the  silver  crest ! 

Wandering  on  the  trackless  plain, 
Sleeping  mid  the  wavy  roar, 

Sailing  mid  the  angry  storm, 
Ploughing  Ocean's  oozy  floor, 

Piling  to  the  clouds  thy  form ! 

Wandering  monument  of  rain, 

Prisoned  by  the  sullen  north ! 
But  to  melt  thy  hated  chain, 

Is  it  that  thou  comest  forth  ? 
Wend  thee  to  the  sunny  south, 

To  the  glassy  summer  sea ; 
And  the  breathings  of  her  mouth 

Shall  unchain  and  gladden  thee  ! 

Roamer  in  the  hidden  path, 

'Neath  the  green  and  clouded  wave! 
Trampling,  in  thy  reckless  wrath, 

On  the  lost  but  cherished  brave  ; 
Parting  love's  death-linked  embrace, 

Crushing  beauty's  skeleton — 
Tell  us  what  the  hidden  race 

With  our  mourned  lost  have  done ! 


Floating  sleep !  who  in  the  sun 

Art  an  icy  coronal. 
And,  beneath  the  viewless  dun, 

Throw'st  o'er  barks  a  wavy  pall ! 
Shining  death  upon  the  sea ! 

Wend  thee  to  the  southern  main : 
Bend  to  GOD  thy  melting  knee — 

Mingle  with  the  wave  again ! 


TO  A  WAVE. 
List,  thou  child  of  wind  and  sea ! 

Tell  me  of  the  far-off  deep, 
Where  the  tempest's  wind  is  free, 

And  the  waters  never  sleep  ! 
Thou  perchance  the  storm  hast  aided, 

In  its  work  of  stern  despair, 
Or  perchance  thy  hand  hath  braided, 

In  deep  caves,  the  mermaid's  hair. 

Wave  !  now  on  the  golden  sands, 

Silent  as  thou  art,  and  broken, 
Bear'st  thou  not  from  distant  strands 

To  my  heart  some  pleasant  token  ? 
Tales  of  mountains  of  the  south, 

Spangles  of  the  ore  of  silver ; 
Which,  with  playful  singing  mouth, 

Thou  hast  leaped  on  high  to  pilfer  ? 

Mournful  wave  !  I  deemed  thy  song 

Was  telling  of  a  mournful  prison, 
Which,  when  tempests  swept  along, 

And  the  mighty  winds  were  risen, 
Foundered  in  the  Ocean's  grasp : 

While  the  brave  and  fair  were  dying, 
Wave  !  didst  mark  a  white  hand  clasp 

In  thy  folds  as  thou  wert  flying  ? 


366  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

\^~^r^-^~^-^s-^~^^^^^^^~>>^^^ 

Faded  wave  !  a  joy  to  thee, 

Now  thy  flight  and  toil  are  over ! 
Oh,  may  my  departure  be 

Calm  as  thine,  thou  ocean  rover ! 
When  this  soul's  last  joy  or  mirth 

On  the  shore  of  time  is  driven, 
Be  its  lot  like  thine  on  earth, 

To  be  lost  away  in  heaven ! 


THE  DEATH-BED  OF  BEAUTY. 

She  sleeps  in  beauty,  like  the  dying  rose 

By  the  warm  skies  and  winds  of  June  forsaken ; 
Or  like  the  sun,  when,  dimmed  with  clouds,  it  goes 

To  its  clear  ocean-bed,  by  light  winds  shaken ; 
Or  like  the  moon,  when  through  its  robes  of  snow 

It  smiles  with  angel  meekness ;  or  like  sorrow, 
When  it  is  soothed  by  resignation's  glow ; 

Or  like  herself :  she  will  be  dead  to-morrow ! 

How  still  she  sleeps  !     The  young  and  beauteous  girl 

And  the  faint  breath  upon  her  red  lips  trembles ! 
Waving,  almost  in  death,  the  raven  curl 

That  floats  around  her ;  and  she  most  resembles 
The  fall  of  night  upon  the  ocean  foam, 

Wherefrom  the  sun-light  hath  not  yet  departed, 
And  where  the  winds  are  faint.     She  stealeth  home, 

Unsullied  girl,  an  angel  broken-hearted ! 

Oh,  bitter  world !  that  hadst  so  cold  an  eye 

To  look  upon  so  fair  a  type  of  heaven  ; 
She  could  not  dwell  beneath  a  winter  sky, 

And  her  heart-strings  were  frozen  here  and  riven, 
And  now  she  lies  in  ruins — look  and  weep ! 

How  lightly  leans  her  cheek  upon  the  pillow ! 
And  how  the  bloom  of  her  fair  face  doth  keep 

Changed,  like  a  stricken  dolphin  on  the  billow  ! 


ROSWELL    PARK. 

[Born  1807.] 

ROSWELL  PARK  was  born  at  Lebanon,  on  the  1st  of  October,  1807. 
His  parents  soon  afterward  removed  to  Burlington,  in  Otsego  County, 
in  New  York,  and  the  early  years  of  their  son  were  passed  partly  at 
their  residence  and  partly  at  that  of  his  grandfather,  at  Preston,  in 
Connecticut.  He  entered  the  Sophomore  Class  of  Hamilton  Col 
lege,  at  Clinton,  in  New  York,  but,  receiving  an  appointment  as  a 
cadet  in  the  United  States  Military  Academy  at  West  Point,  in  the 
spring  of  1827  he  repaired  to  that  institution.  In  1831,  he  was 
graduated,  having  held  the  appointment  of  an  Assistant  Professor 
during  the  last  two  years  of  his  course.  He  then  received  a  Lieu 
tenant's  commission  in  the  United  States  Engineer  Corps,  but,  during 
the  summer's  furlough,  studied  at  Union  College,  and  there  received 
his  first  degree  in  the  Arts.  Subsequently,  for  nearly  two  years,  he 
was  stationed  at  Newport,  in  Rhode  Island,  and  afterward,  for  three 
years,  at  Boston  Harbor  and  city,  assisting  Cols.  TOTTEN  and 
THAYER  in  constructing  the  fortifications  then  in  progress  in  those 
places.  In  the  summer  of  1836,  Mr.  PARK  was  ordered  to  the 
immediate  charge  of  the  Delaware  Breakwater ;  and  in  the  same 
year  received  and  accepted  the  appointment  of  Professor  of  Natural 
Philosophy  and  Chemistry  in  the  University  of  Pennsylvania.  He 
resided  in  Philadelphia  until  July,  1842,  when  he  resigned  his 
professorship,  and  soon  afterward  removed  to  Burlington,  in  New 
Jersey,  where  he  is  now  devoting  himself  to  a  course  of  theological 
study,  with  a  view  to  the  ministry  of  the  Protestant  Episcopal 
Church. 

Mr.  PARK  has  published  a  brief  "History  of  West  Point  and  the 
United  States  Military  Academy,"  and  a  large  work  entitled  "  Pan- 
tology,  or  a  Systematic  Survey  of  Human  Knowledge."  His  poetical 
writings  are  chiefly  comprised  in  a  volume  of  "  Selections  of  Juvenile 
and  Miscellaneous  Poems,  Written  or  Translated,"  published  at 
Philadelphia,  in  1836.  They  embrace  a  variety  of  subjects — the 
gravest  and  gayest — melodious  in  their  structure,  and  pervaded  by  a 
tone  of  true  feeling,  and,  at  times,  by  a  vein  of  lively  and  pleasant 
humor. 


368  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

COOPERSTOWN. 

In  remembrance  of  a  visit  to  Cooperstown,  and  Party  on  the  Otsego 
Lake,  August  19,  1831. 

Vale  of  Otsego,  ever  dear, 

Bright  are  thy  scenes  to  fancy's  eye ; 
And  noble  bosoms  throb  sincere, 

Beneath  thy  mellow,  radiant  sky. 
Peace  to  thy  village  walks  and  spires ; 

Peace  to  thy  waters  and  thy  shades ; 
Bliss  to  thy  matrons  and  thy  sires  ; 

And  bliss  to  thy  unrivalled  maids  ! 

Bright  is  Geneva's  lake  of  blue  ; 

Grand  is  Niagara's  awful  roar ; 
Wild  is  the  Catskill's  rugged  view  ; 

And  sweet  Lake  George's  placid  shore. 
But  bright,  and  grand,  and  wild,  and  sweet, 

Thy  lake  of  blue,  and  hills  of  green, 
Where  thousand  mingled  beauties  meet, 

To  shed  a  halo  o'er  the  scene. 

Nor  art  thou  doomed  to  waste  unknown, 

Nor  fades  thy  loveliness  untold ; 
For  he,  thou  claimest  as  thine  own, 

High  on  the  list  of  fame  enrolled, 
Hath  pictured  in  the  glowing  page 

Each  scene  where  Memory  loves  to  dwell ; 
And  Gallic  youth,  and  German  sage, 

In  other  climes  thy  beauties  tell. 

They  stand  beside  the  precipice, 

And  mark  the  falling  of  the  deer  ; 
They  linger  o'er  the  steep  abyss, 

And  tremble  for  the  Pioneer. 
They  rove  the  mansion's  lordly  halls, 

Where  every  object  brings  its  charm ; 
Where,  ominous,  the  pictured  walls 

Display  Britannia's  severed  arm.* 

*  This  alludes  to  the  papering  of  the  mansion  at  Cooperstown,  as  described 
in  the  "  Pioneers,"  which  the  writer  observed  to  compare  with  the  description. 


ROSWELL     PARK 

They  wander  through  the  pathless  wood, 

Where  Spring  renews  her  leafy  bower, 
Where  Nature,  in  her  solitude, 

Exerts  her  wonder-working  power. 
They  view  her  now,  as,  in  her  prime, 

She  sat  in  Eden's  calm  recess ; 
Majestic,  simple  and  suhlime, 

The  spirit  of  the  wilderness. 

They  leap  on  board  the  light  canoe; 

They  skim  across  the  crystal  lake, 
With  not  a  breeze  the  deep  to  woo, 

With  not  a  ripple  in  their  wake  ; 
Or  silent  spread  the  knotted  twine, 

At  evening,  from  the  distant  strand ; 
Then,  gathering  in  the  fatal  line, 

Bring  countless  victims  to  the  land. 


369 


Thus  Fancy's  wand,  the  magic  pen, 

Thy  forest  charms  hath  well  expressed ; 
And  mirrored  thee,  as  thou  wast  then, 

The  model  of  the  rising  West. 
Happy  the  author  who  can  claim 

A  vale  so  lovely  as  his  own ; 
Happy  the  village  that  can  name 

So  worthy  and  so  famed  a  son. 

And  thou  art  changed  ; — yet  sweetly  changed  ; 

In  thy  maturer  garb  arrayed  ; 
More  bright,  more  fair,  but  not  estranged 

From  those  who  roamed  thy  forest  glade. 
The  lofty  spires  and  clustered  town, 

The  meadows  wet  with  early  dew, 
Add  lustre  to  the  mountain's  brown, 

And  yield  the  wave  a  softer  hue. 


The  figure  of  the  papering  represents  Britannia,  personified  as  a  female  figure, 
resting  upon  an  urn  ;  but,  owing  to  a  fault  in  the  pasting,  the  arm,  which  comes 
on  a  separate  roll,  was  severed  from  the  body. 


370 


POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

I  marked  thee  thus,  one  blissful  morn, 

When  Summer  breathed  its  balmy  sighs 
When  music's  cheerful  notes  were  borne 

In  echoes  to  the  shining  skies ; 
When,  gliding  o'er  the  ruffled  sea, 

Our  bark  pursued  its  rapid  way, 
And  maiden's  smile,  and  manhood's  glee, 

Gave  promise  of  that  happy  day. 

We  wandered  through  the  verdant  bowers, 

We  listened  to  the  murmuring  rill, 
Or  on  the  lawn,  bestrewed  with  flowers, 

We  met  to  dance  the  light  quadrille. 
We  rowed  beneath  the  pendent  grove, 

And  cast  abroad  the  tiny  hook ; 
While  many  a  lovely  angler  strove 

To  ensnare  the  rover  of  the  brook. 

We  gathered,  in  the  sportive  ring, 

The  merry  sylvan  games  to  share ; 
We  cooled  our  wine  beneath  the  spring, 

And  spread  our  rural  banquet  there. 
We  parted  when  the  moonbeam  shone 

Upon  the  water's  misty  breast ; 
When  twilight  music's  dying  tone 

Composed  the  willing  soul  to  rest. 

'T  was  thus,  as  poets  tell  the  tale, 

Arcadian  shepherds  passed  the  day; 
And  thus  in  Tempe's  rivalled  vale, 

The  happy  moments  flew  away. 
And  Memory  oft  on  scenes  like  this 

Shall  bid  enraptured  Fancy  dwell ; 
Or  whisper,  waked  from  dreams  of  bliss ; 

Vale  of  Otsego,  fare  thee  well ! 


ROSWELL     PARK. 


371 


THE    COMMUNION. 

"  Why  was  I  made  to  hear  thy  voice, 

And  enter  while  there 's  room  ! 
While  thousands  make  a  wretched  choice, 

And  rather  starve  than  come."  WATTS. 

While  the  sons  of  earth,  retiring, 

From  the  sacred  temple  roam  ; 
LORD,  thy  light  and  love  desiring, 

To  thine  altar  fain  we  come. 
Children  of  a  Heavenly  Father, 

Friends  and  brethren  would  we  be ; 
While  we  round  thy  table  gather, 

May  our  hearts  be  one  in  thee. 

JESUS  spreads  his  banner  o'er  us, 

Cheers  our  famished  souls  with  food ; 
He  the  banquet  spreads  before  us 

Of  his  mystic  flesh  and  blood. 
Precious  banquet !  bread  of  heaven ! 

Wine  of  gladness  flowing  free ! 
May  we  taste  it,  kindly  given, 

In  remembrance,  LORD  of  thee. 

In  thy  holy  Incarnation, 

When  the  angels  sung  thy  birth, 
In  thy  fasting  and  temptation, 

In  thy  labors  on  the  earth ; 
In  thy  trial  and  rejection, 

In  thy  sufferings  on  the  tree, 
In  thy  glorious  resurrection, 

May  we,  LORD,  remember  thee  ! 

All  thy  love  and  mercy  feeling, 

All  our  weakness  would  we  feel ; 
Humbly  at  thine  altar  kneeling, 

For  thy  pardon  would  we  kneel. 
All  our  passions  sacrificing, 

As  thy  sacrifice  we  see, 
May  we,  from  thine  altar  rising, 

Consecrate  our  lives  to  thee. 


372  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

By  thy  HOLY  SPIRIT  leading, 

Gently  draw  us  on  the  road ; 
By  thy  boundless  merit  pleading, 

Reconcile  us  to  our  GOD. 
Tossed  on  life's  eventful  ocean, 

Changing  though  our  life  may  be, 
When  its  billows  cease  their  motion 

May  we  find  our  rest  in  thee ! 

When  the  heaven  shall  be  shaken, 

As  thou  comest  from  on  high ; 
When  the  dead  from  death  awaken, 

To  attend  thee  in  the  sky ; 
When  the  mighty  seals  are  broken, 

And  the  mountains,  trembling,  flee ; 
When  the  final  doom  is  spoken, 

May  we  refuge  find  in  thee  ! 


MORNING. 

"  Hues  of  the  rich  unfolding  morn, 
That,  ere  the  glorious  Sun  be  born, 
By  some  soft  touch  invisible 
Around  his  path  are  taught  to  swell." 

KEBLE'S  CHRISTIAN  YEAR. 

Morn's  orient  beams  appear,  and  one  by  one, 
The  weary  stars,  retiring  from  their  watch, 
Quench  their  bright  lamps,  and  dimly  sink  to  rest. 
Blushing  Aurora  hides  before  the  Sun, 
Who  yonder  comes,  upon  his  fiery  car, 
To  ride  his  daily  circuit  through  the  sky, 
Dispensing  to  the  nations  life  and  light. 
A  flood  of  glory  showers  upon  the  peaks 
Of  lofty  mountains  ;  bursts  upon  the  plains  ; 
Tinges  with  burnished  gold  the  distant  clouds, 
That  seem  his  shady  canopy  ;  and  lights 
His  pathway  up  the  heavens.     Nature  awakes 
From  drowsy  slumber,  active  and  refreshed ; 
And  air  and  earth  are  filled  with  animation. 


ROSWELL     PARK. 


373 


The  lowing  herd  disperse  upon  the  mead; 
The  insect  myriads  murmur  forth  their  joy ; 
And  thousand  songsters  warble  in  the  grove 
Their  notes  melodious.     A  brighter  green 
Enrobes  the  foliage,  glittering  with  dew, 
And  lightens  up  the  landscape.     Risen  with  the  sun, 
The  cheerful  ploughman  yokes  his  patient  team ; 
And,  while  the  fresh-turned  furrow  stripes  the  soil, 
Thinks  of  his  distant  harvest.     Loudest  now 
Rings  the  gay  anvil  with  redoubled  blows ; 
Not  amid  gloom,  as  when,  in  Etna's  caves, 
The  giant  CYCLOPS  forged  the  living  thunder. 

How  glorious  thus  at  mom  to  walk  abroad, 
Inhaling  perfume,  breathing  the  fresh  air, 
Listening  to  melody  ;  while,  all  around, 
We  view,  delighted,  Nature's  lovely  works, 
In  mountain,  plain  or  stream,  in  earth  and  sky ! 
Still  more  delightful,  when,  with  beauty's  self, 
Creation's  last,  and  best,  and  fairest  work, 
We  hold  sweet  converse  on  our  heedless  walk ! 


NEW  YEAR'S    ODE. 

Written  for  the  Phoenician  Society  of  Hamilton  College. 

Hail  to  the  lovers  of  music  and  mystery ! 

Hail,  fellow-students,  both  sober  and  gay ! 
Science  and  Politics,  Grammar  and  History, 

Reason  and  Logic  are  crazy  to-day : 
My  rhyme  is  ill-chosen,  my  ink  is  all  frozen, 

And  blots  by  the  dozen  around  me  appear ; 
But  still  in  the  issue,  before  they  dismiss  you, 

Permit  me  to  wish  you  a  happy  New  Year. 

Now  in  the  time  of  the  festival  holidays, 

Christmas,  Thanksgiving,  and  New  Years,  and  all, 

WTheri  Freshmen  and  Seniors  together  keep  jolly  days, 
Down  Clinton  Street  or  up  Hamilton  hall ; 


When  books  are  neglected,  and  study  rejected, 
And  pleasure  expected  by  all  ranks  of  men ; 

In  this  merry  season,  it  cannot  be  treason 

That  rhyme  without  reason  should  govern  the  pen. 

Sing  then  of  peace  and  continued  prosperity, 

Raise  the  glad  anthem  abroad  and  at  home  ; 
Trumpet  our  nation's  renown  to  posterity, 

Tell  of  her  glory  in  ages  to  come  : 
Our  internal  ditches,  the  wonder  of  witches, 

Will  add  to  our  riches  and  cherish  our  trade ; 
While  steam  and  canal  boats,  and  large  ships  and  sail-boats, 

And  packets  and  mail  boats  our  commerce  will  aid. 

Sing  of  our  Congress  and  President's  message, 

Talk  upon  politics  much  as  you  will ; 
May  every  good  law  have  a  speedier  passage, 

And  every  dull  speech-making  member  be  still ; 
May  truth  be  regarded,  and  merit  rewarded, 

And  error  retarded,  while  vices  are  few ; 
That  every  vile  faction,  or  wicked  transaction, 

May  meet  with  detection  and  punishment  due. 

Sing  of  uncommon  escapes  and  recoveries, 

Steam-boilers  bursting,  or  stages  upset ; 
Sing  of  inventions  and  noted  discoveries, 

Since  the  last  visit  of  General  FAYETTE  ; 
Of  REYNOLDS'S  lectures,  and  MITCHELL'S  conjectures, 

With  spider-web  textures  of  arguments  thin, 
On  Captain  SYMMES'  notions  of  internal  oceans, 

And  wonderful  motions  of  regions  within. 

Sing  of  our  maidens,  so  lively  and  pretty, 

With  cheeks  of  the  rose  and  the  lily  combined, 
With  red  lips  and  bright  eyes  and  ringlets  so  jetty, 

Adorned  with  all  graces  of  person  and  mind. 
Still  may  they  inherit  the  beauty  and  merit, 

And  well-tempered  spirit,  which  lovers  revere ; 
And  each  be  surrounded  with  pleasure  unbounded, 

While  joy's  trump  is  sounded,  this  happy  New  Year ! 


JESSE     ERSKINE     DOW.  375 


JESSE    ERSKINE    DOW. 

[Born  1809.] 

JESSE  ERSKINE  Dow  was  born  at  Thompson,  in  Windham  County, 
on  the  21st  of  January,  1809.  He  is  a  son  of  the  Rev.  DANIEL  Dow, 
one  of  the  oldest  Congregational  ministers  in  Connecticut — having 
preached  for  fifty  years  in  the  parish  of  Thompson,  where  he  still 
continues  his  pastoral  labors.  The  health  of  his  son,  during  some 
of  the  years  of  childhood,  was  such  as  seriously  to  retard  his 
education,  and  finally  to  withdraw  him  entirely  from  his  studies. 
Having  regained  his  health,  he  was  placed  in  the  counting-room  of 
Messrs.  WILLIAM  BLODGETT  &  Co.,  of  Providence,  in  Rhode  Island, 
to  learn  the  mercantile  business.  In  1827,  he  became  private  secre 
tary  to  Commodore  MORRIS,  and  was  stationed  at  the  Navy  Yard, 
near  Boston,  in  Massachusetts.  In  1835  he  went  to  sea  with  Com 
modore  ELLIOTT,  as  Professor  of  Mathematics,  and,  in  1836,  became 
secretary  to  the  Commander  of  the  Mediterranean  squadron.  After 
visiting  the  classic  shores  of  the  Mediterranean,  he  returned  as 
bearer  of  despatches  from  our  Charge  des  Affaires  at  Lisbon  to  the 
Secretary  of  State  at  Washington.  Here  he  obtained  a  clerkship  in 
the  Patent  Office,  and  was  subsequently  employed,  in  a  similar  capa 
city,  in  various  departments,  until  1841,  when  he  was  removed  for 
political  causes.  He  still  resides  at  Washington,  engaged  as  an 
Agent  for  Public  Claimants. 

Mr.  Dow  is  well  known  as  a  correspondent  of  the  "  Democratic 
Review,"  the  "  Lady's  Book,"  and  various  other  periodicals.  His 
verse  is  often  unequal  in  character — the  same  article  exhibiting 
passages  of  decided  beauty  and  others  of  careless  versification.  He 
is  peculiarly  happy  in  his  political  poems.  He  is  evidently  a  warm 
politician,  and  when  his  theme  is  one  in  which  his  feelings  are  deeply 
interested,  his  verse  glows  with  ardor,  and  is  highly  spirited.  Al 
though  we  have  endeavored  to  exclude  all  articles  of  a  partizan 
character  from  our  volume,  we  cannot  forbear  to  select  one  or  two 
of  Mr.  Dow's  finest  political  effusions. 


POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

TADMOR  OF  THE   WILDERNESS. 
Beneath  the  arch  of  eastern  skies, 

On  Syria's  barren  wild, 
Where  oft  the  scowling  sand-storm  flies, 

And  hides  the  desert  child, 
How  beautiful  to  catch  the  sight 
Of  Tadmor's  mountain's  purple  height ! 

And  while  the  flush  of  evening  glows 

Upon  the  western  sky, 
Unequalled  by  the  blushing  rose 

Where  Sharon's  zephyrs  sigh, 
How  sweet  to  hear  the  camel-train 
Come  tinkling  home  across  the  plain ! 

Gigantic  loom  the  "  desert  ships," 

As  steadily  they  come  ; 
While  joyfully  the  Kabyl  skips 

Along  his  houseless  home, 
And  shakes  his  spear  with  child-like  glee, 
And  cries, — "  the  boundless  waste  for  me  !  " 

The  boundless  waste,  the  fruitless  sea. 

Where  scorching  rays  are  cast, 
The  steed  that  with  the  wind  can  flee, 

When  danger  gathers  fast, 
The  scanty  tent,  the  brackish  spring, 
And  Night,  that  comes  with  jewelled  wing: 

The  solitude  where  foot-prints  die, 

And  prowling  lions  tread, 
Where  caravans  of  wealth  sweep  by, 

In  watchfulness  and  dread  : 
And  sink  to  sleep,  and  wake  to  know 
That  Ishmael  is  still  their  foe. 

And  now,  behold,  from  towering  hill 

The  howling  city  stand, 
In  silver  moonlight  sleeping  still, 

So  beautiful  and  grand ; 
No  sadder  sight  has  earth  than  this  : 
'T  is  Tadmor  of  the  Wilderness. 


Half-buried  in  the  flowerless  sand 

Whirled  by  the  edying  blast, 
Behold  her  marble  columns  stand, 

Huge  relicts  of  the  past ; 
And  o'er  her  gates  of  solid  stone 
The  sculptured  eagle  fronts  the  sun. 

Palmyra !  thou  wert  great  indeed, 
When,  through  thy  portals,  passed 

The  Persian  on  his  weary  steed, 
And  found  a  rest  at  last, 

From  Samiel's  breath,  and  war's  alarms, 
Beneath  thy  tall  and  waving  palms. 

ZENOBIA,  mistress  of  the  East, 

In  glory  rested  here  ; 
'Neath  yonder  porch  she  held  her  feast, 

While  Satraps  bowed  in  fear ; 
And  oft  the  silver  strain  came  up, 
While  BACCHUS  filled  her  golden  cup. 

And  here  she  oped  her  portals  wide, 

And  called  the  wise  around ; 
And  hither,  in  her  days  of  pride, 

The  sage  a  refuge  found ; 
And  Arab  chief  and  Rabbin  hung 
On  gray-haired  wisdom's  silver  tongue. 

When  Rome's  fierce  thousands  hither  came, 

O'er  yonder  sands  she  fled, 
And  here  returned  in  grief  and  shame, 

A  sovereign  captive  led  ; 
While  loud  her  people's  wail  arose 
Above  the  shouts  of  conquering  foes. 

And  when  the  gleaming  cohorts  flung 

Their  banners  o'er  thy  head, 
And  cymbals  clashed  and  clarions  rung, 

Before  AURELIAN'S  tread, 
Then  died  thy  race,  and  sank  thy  towers, 
And  desert  lightnings  seared  thy  flowers. 


378  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Emesa  !  When  thy  bowers  of  green 
Received  the  Roman  horde, 

The  legions  called  for  Tadmor's  queen, 
And  bared  the  glittering  sword  ; 

And  she,  to  shun  that  cruel  death, 

With  bloody  roses  soiled  her  wreath. 

Yes,  he,  Athena's  wisest  one, 

By  royalty  betrayed, 
Bowed  down  beneath  the  Syrian  sun, 

And  felt  the  tyrant's  blade  ; 
And  now  upon  the  plain  he  sleeps, 
While  Science,  bending  o'er  him,  weeps! 

ZENOBIA!  when  thy  name  shall  die, 
And  Tadmor  sink  in  gloom, 

When  fierce  AURELIAN'S  dust  shall  lie 
Forgotten  in  the  tomb, 

Still  History's  peri  shall  trace  his  fame, 

And  glory  gild  LONGINUS'  name. 

In  ancient  times  thy  walls  were  laid 

By  Israel's  wisest  King, 
And  hither  came  the  sons  of  trade 

Their  richest  gifts  to  bring ; 
With  Nineveh  and  Babylon 
Thy  regal  state  thou  didst  put  on. 

On  the  bleak  hill  now  stand  thy  tombs, 

As  silent  as  thy  towers ; 
And  there  the  owl  his  gray  wing  plumes, 

And  there  the  jackall  cowers  ; 
And  west  wind's  sigh,  and  Simoom's  wail, 
Through  thy  tall  pillars  tell  thy  tale. 

Sleep  on,  thou  Oriental  queen, 

The  slumber  of  the  dead ! 
No  palm  majestic  waves  its  green 

Above  thy  marble  head  ; 
Amid  thy  courts  the  cricket  sings, 
And  startled  Echo  wildly  rings. 


JESSE      ERSKINE    DOW 

The  Arab  saunters  down  thy  aisles, 

Or  careless  turns  away  ; 
The  earthquake  rocks  thy  giant  piles, 

And  lightnings  round  thee  play ; 
But  morning's  dawn  and  evening's  close, 
Awaken  not  thy  dread  repose. 


379 


LINES 

On  seeing  General  McNEiL  knocking  at  the  door  of  the  President's  House. 

Has  Liberty  no  heart  to  feel, 

No  hand  to  help,  no  voice  to  cheer, 
When  he  who  waved  his  flashing  steel 

In  glory's  glittering  rank,  draws  near  ? 
The  sordid  race  that  scorn  the  brave, 

Shall  exiled  mourn  in  early  youth ; 
Their  rest  shall  be  dishonor's  grave, 

Their  damning  epitaph  the  truth. 
*  *#*=*#*#** 

The  Summer  day  was  near  its  close, 

When  thousands  caught  the  wild  huzzah, 
And  rushed  upon  their  crimson  foes 

At  Lundy's  Lane  and  Chippewa. 
When  SCOTT  and  BROWN  their  laurels  gained, 

McNEiL,  as  bright  a  wreath  was  thine  ; 
Thy  form  was  where  destruction  reigned 

The  fiercest  on  that  bloody  line. 
Around  was  death  in  every  form ; 
But,  like  the  oak,  thou  brav'dst  the  storm. 

Can  man  forget  the  stalwart  arm 

That  shielded  his  despairing  hearth  ? 
That  kept  his  dearest  ones  from  harm, 

And  saved  the  shelter  of  their  birth  ? 
Can  mothers  ere  forget  to  bless 

The  heart  that  cheered  their  hours  of  woe, 
When  Rapine,  in  its  ruffian  dress, 

Trod  the  red  footsteps  of  the  foe  ? 
Ay,  when  the  world  shall  scorn  the  bold, 
And  knights  forget  their  spurs  of  gold ! 


Yet,  gallant  one,  they  pass  thee  by, 

Unnoticed  mid  a  servile  throng  ; 
They  read  no  merit  in  thine  eye, 

No  valor  in  thy  martial  form : 
Thy  limbs  are  stiff,  for  thou  didst  feel 

The  British  iron  deep  and  sore ; 
And  though  there  's  temper  in  thy  steel, 

They  need  its  master's  hand  no  more : 
The  men  of  yesterday  have  claims 
O'er  battle  scars,  and  glorious  names. 

Away,  proud  soldier  of  the  free  ! 

Back  to  thy  everlasting  hills  ! 
Their  granite  peaks  shall  nurture  thee 

When  power  grows  rank  and  friendship  chills. 
And  when  the  thrilling  blast  of  war 

Shall  ring  again  o'er  land  and  wave, 
Remembrance  shall  enhance  each  scar 

That  mars  the  beauty  of  the  brave. 
Kin  of  the  Scottish  BRUCE,  away! 
No  Bannockburn  is  here  to-day ! 

In  the  pure  mountain's  calm  retreat, 

Thy  glorious  name  shall  never  fade ; 
And  countless  hearts  shall  proudly  beat 

Around  thy  sleeping  battle-blade. 
And  aged  men  shall  tell  again, 

Around  the  Winter  evening's  fire, 
How  flashed  that  steel  at  Lundy's  Lane, 

Above  the  waves  of  blood  and  fire. 
Forget  thee  ?  when  men  cease  to  feel, 
Shall  patriots  know  thee  not,  McNEiL . 


LINES 

Occasioned  by  the  debate  in  the  United  States'  Senate  on  the  Oregon  Bill. 

Shall  freemen  in  their  halls  be  told 
That  peace  inglorious  saves  their  gold  ? 
That  freedom's  soil  is  better  lost, 
Than  e'er  maintained  at  treasure's  cost  ? 


JESSE      ERSKINE      DOW.  381 

That  sovereignty  is  but  a  name, 

Where  mountains  plume  their  heads  with  flame, 

And  lonely  valleys  stretch  in  pride 

To  meet  the  green  Pacific's  tide  ? 

Strange  language  this  for  those  to  hold, 

Who  would  be  free,  and  dare  be  bold. 

Has  southern  chivalry,  though  gray, 

No  voice  to  cheer  the  wanderer's  way, 

Where  wild  Oregon  rolls  his  flood, 

Through  valleys  drenched  with  freemen's  blood  ? 

Has  JASPER'S  spirit  left  his  spring  1 

Has  SUMPTER'S  rifle  ceased  its  ring? 

HAS  MOULTRIE'S  lion-heart  grown  cold 

Beside  his  bastions  green  and  old  ? 

Oh !  answer  not  in  shame  again, 

Ye  boasting  sons  of  MARION'S  men ! 

When  the  stern  Puritan  threw  back 
The  snow-drift  from  his  glittering  track  ; 
And,  armed  with  basket,  hilt,  and  grace, 
W^atched  the  rude  cradle  of  his  race  ; 
Who  scouted  Plymouth's  barren  shore, 
Or  mocked  her  breakers'  sullen  roar? 
Or  added  up  the  mighty  cost 
Of  planting  Edens  mid  the  frost? 
No  voice  from  barren  hill  and  fen, 
By  agues  rent,  found  utterance  then  ! 

Down,  impious  thought !  't  was  not  the  bold 

Who  prized  their  freedom  less  than  gold ; 

'T  was  not  those  lion-hearted  men, 

Whose  fathers  fought  for  brake  and  fen, 

Or  woke  thy  echoes,  old  Santee, 

With  the  wild  hymn  of  chivalry. 

No  !  no  !  't  was  but  the  echoing  strain 

Of  W*****  and  his  venal  train, 

Caught,  by  a  patriot's  ear,  for  truth, 

And  uttered  with  the  fire  of  youth. 


382  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

THE   LAST   REVOLUTIONARY. 
Oh !  where  are  they,  those  iron  men, 

Who  braved  the  battle's  storm  of  fire, 
When  war's  wild  halo  filled  the  glen, 

And  lit  each  humble  village  spire  ? 
When  hill  sent  back  the  sound  to  hill, 
And  might  was  right,  and  law  wras  will  ? 

Oh !  where  are  they,  whose  manly  breasts 
Beat  back  the  pride  of  England's  might? 

Whose  stalwart  arm,  laid  low  the  crests 
Of  many  an  old  and  valiant  knight  ? 

When  evening  came  with  murderous  flame, 

And  liberty  was  but  a  name  ? 

I  see  them  in  the  distance,  form 
Like  spectres  on  a  misty  shore ; 

Before  them  rolls  the  dreadful  storm, 
And  hills  send  forth  their  rills  of  gore  ; 

Around  them  death,  with  lightning  breath, 

Is  twining  an  immortal  wreath. 

They  conquer  !     GOD  of  glory,  thanks  ! 

They  conquer  !     Freedom's  banner  waves 
Above  oppression's  broken  ranks, 

And  withers  o'er  her  children's  graves  ; 
And  loud  and  long  the  pealing  song 
Of  jubilee  is  borne  along. 

'T  is  evening,  and  December's  sun 
Goes  swiftly  down  behind  the  wave  ; 

And  there  I  see  a  gray-haired  one, 
A  special  courier  to  the  grave  ; 

He  looks  around  on  vale  and  mound, 

Then  falls  upon  his  battle  ground. 

Beneath  him  rests  the  hallowed  earth, 

Now  changed  like  him,  and  still  and  cold ; 

The  blood  that  gave  young  freedom  birth, 
No  longer  warms  the  warrior  old ; 

He  waves  his  hand  with  stern  command, 

Then  dies,  the  last  of  glory's  band. 


MRS.     ANN     S.     STEPHENS. 


MRS.    ANN    S.    STEPHENS. 

[Born  1811.] 

MRS.  ANN  S.  STEPHENS  was  born  at  Derby,  in  1811.  She  is  a 
daughter  of  JOHN  WINTERBOTHAM,  Esq.,  formerly  associated  with 
the  late  Gen.  DAVID  HUMPHREYS,  in  the  well-known  Woolen  Manu 
factory  at  Humphreysville,  and  now  residing  in  the  State  of  Ohio. 
He  furnished  his  daughter  with  good  advantages  for  education,  and 
has  been  more  than  rewarded  by  the  success  of  her  literary  career. 
In  1831,  she  was  married  to  EDWARD  STEPHENS,  one  of  the  present 
editors  of  the  "  Brother  Jonathan,"  and  soon  afterward  removed  to 
Portland,  in  Maine,  where  Mr.  STEPHENS  was  for  some  time  engaged 
in  mercantile  business.  In  1835,  he  established  "The  Portland 
Magazine,"  of  which  his  wife  assumed  the  editorial  charge,  and 
conducted  with  much  success  for  two  years,  when  she  relinquished 
it  in  consequence  of  ill  health.  While  she  resided  in  Portland,  Mrs. 
STEPHENS  also  edited  "  The  Portland  Sketch  Book,"  composed  of 
contributions  of  the  various  authors  of  that  city. 

In  1837,  Mrs.  STEPHENS  removed  to  the  city  of  New  York,  where 
she  has  since  been  constantly  employed  in  literary  labors,  and  where 
she  still  resides.  For  four  years  she  conducted  "The  Ladies' 
Companion,"  which  became,  under  her  charge,  a  well-knowrn  and 
popular  periodical.  In  1842,  she  became  editorially  connected  with 
"  Graham's  Magazine,"  published  at  Philadelphia,  for  which  she  is 
still  a  regular  contributor,  and,  during  the  present  year,  has  become 
the  editor  of  "  The  Ladies'  World."  She  is  a  spirited  and  vigorous 
prose  writer,  and  has  published,  also,  many  well-known  and  graceful 
poems  through  the  medium  of  the  various  magazines  with  which  she 
has  been  so  long  and  so  honorably  associated. 


THE   MOTHER.* 

The  mother  sprang  with  gesture  wild, 
And  to  her  bosom  snatched  the  child ; 
Then,  with  pale  cheek  and  flashing  eye, 
Shouted  with  fearful  energy, 
"  Back,  ruffians,  back !  nor  dare  to  tread 
Too  near  the  body  of  my  dead, 

*  From  "  The  Polish  Boy." 


POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Nor  touch  the  living  boy.     I  stand 

Between  him  and  your  lawless  band. 

No  traitor  he.     But  listen  !  I 

Have  cursed  your  master's  tyranny. 

I  cheered  my  lord  to  join  the  band 

Of  those  who  swore  to  free  our  land, 

Or,  fighting,  die  ;  and,  when  he  pressed 

Me  for  the  last  time  to  his  breast, 

I  knew  that  soon  his  form  would  be 

Low  as  it  is,  or  Poland  free. 

He  went  and  grappled  with  the  foe, 

Laid  many  a  haughty  Russian  low ; 

But  he  is  dead,  the  good,  the  brave, 

And  I,  his  wife,  am  worse — a  slave  ! 

Take  me  and  bind  these  arms,  these  hands, 

With  Russia's  heaviest  iron  bands, 

And  drag  me  to  Siberia's  wild 

To  perish,  if  't  will  save  my  child." 

"Mad  woman,  stop!"  the  leader  cried, 
Tearing  the  pale  boy  from  her  side  ; 
And  in  his  ruffian  grasp  he  bore 
His  victim  to  the  temple  door. 
"  One  moment ! "  shrieked  the  mother,  "  one  ! 
Can  land  or  gold  redeem  my  son  ? 
If  so,  I  bend  my  Polish  knee, 
And,  Russian  !  ask  this  boon  of  thee. 
Take  palaces,  take  land,  take  all ; 
But  leave  him  free  from  Russian  thrall. 
Take  these  ! "     And  her  white  arms  and  hands 
She  stripped  of  rings  and  diamond  bands  ; 
And  tore  from  braids  of  long  black  hair 
The  gems  that  gleamed  like  starlight  there  ; 
Unclasped  the  brilliant  coronal, 
And  carcanet  of  orient  pearl ; 
Her  cross  of  blazing  rubies  last 
Down  to  the  Russian's  feet  she  cast. 
He  stooped  to  seize  the  glittering  store  : 
Upspringing  from  the  marble  floor, 
The  mother,  with  a  cry  of  joy, 
Snatched  to  her  leaping  heart  the  boy ! 


MRS,     ANN     S.     STEPHENS. 

THE    OLD   APPLE   TREE. 

I  am  thinking  of  the  homestead, 

With  its  low  and  sloping  roof, 
And  the  maple  boughs  that  shadowed  it, 

With  a  green  and  leafy  woof; 
I  am  thinking  of  the  lilac  trees, 

That  shook  their  purple  plumes, 
And,  when  the  sash  was  open, 

Shed  fragrance  through  our  rooms. 

I  am  thinking  of  the  rivulet, 

With  its  cool  and  silvery  flow, 
Of  the  old  gray  rock  that  shadowed  it, 

And  the  pepper-mint  below. 
I  am  not  sad  nor  sorrowful ; 

But  memories  will  come  ; 
So  leave  me  to  my  solitude, 

And  let  me  think  of  home. 

There  was  not  around  my  birth-place, 

A  thicket  or  a  flower, 
But  childish  game  or  friendly  face 

Has  given  it  a  power, 
To  haunt  me  in  my  after  life, 

And  be  with  me  again, 
A  sweet  and  pleasant  memory, 

Of  mingled  joy  and  pain. 

But  the  old  and  knotted  apple  tree, 

That  stood  beneath  the  hill, 
My  heart  can  never  turn  to  it, 

But  with  a  pleasant  thrill. 
Oh,  what  a  dreamy  life  I  led, 

Beneath  its  old  green  shade, 
Where  the  daisies  and  the  butter-cups 

A  pleasant  carpet  made  ! 

'T  was  a  rough  old  tree,  in  Spring-time, 
When,  with  a  blustering  sound, 

The  wind  came  hoarsely  sweeping 
Along  the  frosty  ground. 


385 


386  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

^%^-S^-^^-XX-^X^^-N_^X^V^-V^-v.^X^^x-N_x-^^ 

But  when  there  rose  a  rivalry, 

'Tween  clouds  and  pleasant  weather, 

Till  the  sunshine  and  the  rain-drops 
Came  laughing  down  together  ; 

That  patriarch  old  apple  tree 

Enjoyed  the  lovely  strife  ; 
The  sap  sprang  lightly  through  its  veins, 

And  circled  into  life  ; 
A  cloud  of  pale  and  tender  buds 

Burst  o'er  each  rugged  bough  ; 
And  amid  the  starting  verdure, 

The  robins  made  their  vow. 

That  tree  was  very  beautiful 

When  all  the  leaves  were  green, 
And  rosy  buds  lay  opening 

Amid  their  tender  sheen  ; 
When  the  bright  translucent  dew-drops 

Shed  blossoms  as  they  fell, 
And  melted  in  their  fragrance, 

Like  music  in  a  shell. 

It  was  greenest  in  the  Summer-time, 

When  cheerful  sunlight  wove, 
Amid  its  thrifty  leanness, 

A  warm  and  glowing  love  ; 
When  swelling  fruit  blushed  ruddily, 

To  Summer's  balmy  breath, 
And  the  laden  boughs  drooped  heavily, 

To  the  greensward  underneath. 

'T  was  brightest  in  a  rainy  day, 

When  all  the  purple  West 
Was  piled  with  fleecy  storm-clouds, 

That  never  seemed  at  rest ; 
When  a  cool  and  lulling  melody, 

Fell  from  the  dripping  eaves, 
And  soft,  warm  drops  came  pattering 

Upon  the  restless  leaves. 


MRS.     ANN     S.     STEPHENS, 

_^^^s-*>^-^-^s~*^~^r^~*^^^^^~^^^~^^ 

But,  oh,  the  scene  was  glorious, 

When  clouds  were  lightly  riven, 
And  there,  above  my  valley  home, 

Came  out  the  bow  of  heaven  ; 
And,  in  its  fitful  brilliancy, 

Hung  quivering  on  high, 
Like  a  jewelled  arch  of  paradise, 

Reflected  through  the  sky. 

I  am  thinking  of  the  footpath, 

My  constant  visits  made, 
Between  the  dear  old  homestead, 

And  that  leafy  apple  shade  ; 
Where  the  flow  of  distant  waters 

Came  with  a  tinkling  sound, 
Like  the  revels  of  a  fairy  band, 

Beneath  the  fragrant  ground. 

I  haunted  it  at  even-tide, 

And  dreamily  would  lie, 
And  watch  the  crimson  twilight 

Come  stealing  o'er  the  sky  ; 
'T  was  sweet  to  see  its  dying  gold 

Wake  up  the  dusky  leaves, 
To  hear  the  swallows  twittering 

Beneath  the  distant  eaves. 


387 


I  have  listened  to  the  music, 

A  low,  sweet  minstrelsy, 
Breathed  by  a  lonely  night-bird, 

That  haunted  that  old  tree, 
Till  my  heart  has  swelled  with  feelings 

For  which  it  had  no  name, 
A  yearning  love  of  poesy, 

A  thirsting  after  fame. 

I  have  gazed  up  through  the  foliage, 

With  dim  and  tearful  eyes, 
And  with  a  holy  reverence, 

Dwelt  on  the  changing  skies, 


388  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Till  the  burning  stars  were  peopled 
With  forms  of  spirit  birth, 

And  I  've  almost  heard  their  harp-strings 
Reverberate  on  earth. 


FAME. 
Oh,  tell  me  not  that  lofty  minds  may  bow 

In  pleasant  homage  to  a  thought  of  mine — 
That  laurels  yet  may  greenly  deck  this  brow, 

Or  that  my  silent  grave  may  be  a  shrine 
In  after  years,  where  men  may  idly  crowd, 
To  mark  how  low  my  humble  dust  is  bowed. 

Oh,  ask  me  not  to  toil  for  empty  fame, 

Or,  sordid,  coin  my  heart  for  yellow  gold, 
That  careless  lips  may  whisper  o'er  my  name, 

When  this  frail  form  is  lying  still  and  cold. 
Let  the  wild  flowers  that  spring  around  my  tomb, 
Shed  over  me  their  sweet  and  silent  bloom. 
I  would  not  that  a  stranger's  foot  should  tread 
The  long  dank  grass  that  thrills  above  me  dead. 

It  were  no  recompense  for  wasted  life, 

That  men  should  breathe  my  name,  an  empty  sound  ; 
And,  when  this  heart  is  broken  with  the  strife 

Of  thoughts  that  kill,  the  green  and  solemn  mound 
That  pillows  me,  be  haunted  by  the  throng 
That  knew  me  not,  save  in  my  broken  song. 
The  enfranchised  soul  should  seek  a  higher  aim, 
Nor  droop  its  pinions  down  to  earthly  fame. 

Oh,  fame  is  not  for  woman  ;  she  must  yield 

The  very  essence  of  her  being  up  ; 
Bare  her  full  heart,  fling  off  its  golden  shield, 

And  drain  its  very  life  to  fill  the  cup, 
Which,  like  a  brimming  goblet  rich  with  wine, 
She  poureth  out  upon  the  world's  broad  shrine. 
Upon  its  golden  rim  they  grave  her  name, 
Fling  back  the  empty  bowl — and  this  is  fame  ! 


MRS.     ANN     S.     STEPHENS.  389 

I  would  not  toil  for  gold,  nor  swerve  my  heart 
From  its  sweet  impulses,  that  men  may  say 
She  made  a  barter  of  her  sacred  art, 

And  coined  her  music,  till  it  paved  the  way 
To  the  lone  grave,  or  that  she  meanly  bowed 
Her  spirit  down,  to  win  a  finer  shroud, 
Than  wraps  her  sister-women,  and  so  died, 
Her  heart  all  hardened  with  its  earthly  pride. 
Woman  may  toil  for  gold,  and  but  to  find 
That,  for  base  earth,  she  hath  debased  a  mind. 

And  yet  methinks  if  sometimes  lingered  one, 
Whose  noble  presence  unto  me  hath  been 
As  music  to  the  harp — around  the  home 

Which  death  hath  given  me,  though  all  unseen. 
The  sweet,  mysterious  sympathies  which  drew 
My  love  to  his,  as  blossoms  drink  the  dew, 
Would  once  again  arouse  a  spirit  strife, 
And  wake  my  marble  heart  once  more  to  life. 
Ask  me  not,  then,  to  toil  for  wealth  and  fame, 
But  touch  my  heart  with  sweet  affection's  name ! 


SONG   OF   THE   SPRING   BREEZE. 

Oh,  give  me  welcome  ;  I  come,  I  come 
From  a  sweet  and  balmy  land ; 

With  the  tropic  rose  I  have  made  my  home ; 

Mid  ripening  fruits  I  have  loved  to  roam ; 

Where  the  sea-shells  lie  in  their  golden  sand, 
I  have  played  with  the  foam  of  a  southern  strand. 

Oh,  give  me  welcome !     I  bring,  I  bring 
A  gift  for  the  coming  May ; 

The  sunshine  falls  from  my  restless  wing ; 

It  touches  the  ice  of  the  mountain  spring ; 
But  I  laugh,  I  laugh  as  it  melts  away, 
And  my  voice  is  heard  in  the  leaping  spray. 


Oh,  give  me  welcome,  a  welcome  now ! 
The  Winter  was  stern  and  cold ; 


390  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

4r**^>*r*^~^^^^-^S-^-^r^~^*^s-^-^^-**s^^ 

But  I  sung  him  to  sleep,  and  I  kissed  his  brow, 
While  I  lifted  his  robe  of  spotless  snow  : 
And  that  crusty  fellow,  so  chill  and  old, 
Awoke  in  a  mantle  of  green  and  gold. 

A  welcome  now !  while  the  south  wind  weaves 

His  breath  with  the  morning  dew, 
As  he  fans  the  moss  on  the  cottage  eaves, 
And  drives  from  the  hollow  the  sear  dry  leaves ; 
Where  the  violet  hides  its  eye  of  blue, 
And  the  pale  young  grass  peeps  faintly  through. 

Oh,  welcome  me,  while  I  have  a  rout 

With  the  pleasant  April  rain  ; 
The  birds  that  sing  with  a  silvery  shout, 
And  the  fragrant  buds  that  are  breaking  out, 
Like  drops  of  light  with  a  rosy  stain, 
Mid  the  delicate  leaves  that  are  green  again ! 


SONG. 

Let  me  perish  in  the  early  Spring, 

When  thickets  all  are  green  ; 
When  rosy  buds  are  blossoming 

Amid  their  tender  sheen  ; 
When  the  rain-drops  and  the  sunshine, 

Lie  sleeping  in  the  leaves  ; 
And  swallows  haunt  the  thrifty  vine 

That  drapes  the  cottage  eaves. 

Let  me  perish  in  the  early  Spring, 

The  childhood  of  the  year ! 
I  would  not  have  a  gloomy  thing 

Pass  o'er  my  humble  bier  ; 
For  when  a  broken  heart  gives  way, 

In  such  a  world  as  ours, 
'T  is  well  to  let  the  humble  clay 

Pass  gently  with  the  flowers. 


WILLIAM    HENRY    BURLEIGH. 

[Born  1812.] 

WILLIAM  HENRY  BURLEIGH  was  born  at  Woodstock,  on  the  2d 
February,  1812.     In  his  infancy,  his  parents  removed  to  Plainfiel 
where  his  father  was  for  several  years  Principal  of  an  Academ 
until,  from  the  loss  of  sight,  he  was  compelled  to  relinquish  t 
business  of  instruction,  and  to  retire  upon  a  farm.     The  subject  o 
our  sketch,  therefore,  passed  the  principal  years  of  his  boyhood 
agricultural  labors,  with  no  other  means  of  education  than  those  whic 
a  district  school  afforded,  till  he  reached  his  seventeenth  year,  wh 
he  was  apprenticed  to  the  printing  business.     Since  that  period,  h 
life,  like  that  of  most  of  his  occupation,  has  been  singularly  varied — 
his  time  having  been  divided  between  the  duties  of  a  printer, 
editor,  and  a  public  lecturer.     He  conducted,  at  one  time,  "  T 
Literary  Journal,"  published  at  Schenectady,  in  New  York.     Afte 
ward,  for  more  than  two  years,  he  edited  "  The  Christian  Witness 
at  Pittsburg,  in  Pennsylvania,  and  resigned  it  to  take   charge 
"  The  Washington  Banner,"  published  at  Allegheny,  in  the  sam 
state.     He  resides   at  present  at  Plainfield,  where  he  is  devoti 
most  of  his  time,  we  believe,  to  the  study  of  the  law. 

Mr.  BURLEIGH  has  been  a  valuable  contributor  to  our  periodic 
literature  for  several  years.  Perhaps  his  happiest  effort  was  a  seri 
of  articles,  composed  of  prose  and  verse,  under  the  signature  of 
G.  ALLYN,"  written  some  years  since,  for  the  columns  of  "  The  Ne 
Yorker,"  formerly  published  by  HORACE  GREELEY.  In  1841, 
published  a  volume  of  "  Poems,"  from  a  Philadelphia  press.  Th 
display  a  lively  imagination,  and  a  cultivated  taste  ;  and  are  among 
the  manlier  contributions  to  the  poetic  literature  of  our  country. 


AGATHA. 

"  OUR  AGATHA  is  DEAD  !"     A  silvery  voice, 
Made  tremulous  with  sorrow,  in  my  ear 
Murmured  the  mournful  message,  while  a  hand 
Pressed  soft  on  mine,  in  the  sweet  confidence 
Of  love  which  grief  had  hallowed.      From  the  page 
That  had  beguiled  me  to  forgetfulness 


392  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Of  all  earth's  miseries,  with  sudden  pang 

I  lifted  up  my  eyes,  and  sought  to  read 

In  the  pale  face  bent  o'er  me — sought,  yet  feared — 

Sad  confirmation  of  her  sad  report. 

Oh,  with  what  rapid  tracery  Sorrow  writes 

Its  record  on  the  brow,  serene  erewhile, 

Then  shadowed  suddenly,  and  wearing  long 

The  impress  of  deep  suffering !     All  was  there  : 

Knit  brow  and  humid  eye,  and  quivering  lip, 

Gave  sad  response — "  OUR  AGATHA  is  DEAD  !" 

Then  fell  upon  my  heart  a  crushing  weight, 
Heavy  and  cold ;  and  earth,  and  sea  and  sky 
Their  brightness  lost  for  me,  and  over  all 
A  pall  of  darkness  lay.     Nor  odorous  air, 
Nor  flowers  fresh-blooming,  nor  the  song  of  birds, 
Nor  Nature's  wondrous  music,  from  the  wood, 
And  running  stream  and  dashing  waterfall, 
Flung  out  continuous,  nor  the  sweeter  voice 
Of  children  at  their  play,  nor  the  soft  gleam 
Of  eyes  that  spoke  of  Love,  nor  words  of  hope 
Breathed  from  Affection's  lips,  nor  kind  appeals 
To  look  to  HIM  whose  chastening  hand  is  laid 
In  tenderest  pity  on  His  little  ones, 
Could  bring  me  peace,  or  from  my  crushed  heart  lift 
The  icy  wreight  of  sorrow.     To  myself 
I  seemed  forlornest  of  Earth's  multitudes, 
And  hugged  my  selfish  grief,  by  day  and  night, 
Feeding  my  hungry  soul  with  bitter  thoughts, 
And  holding  dark  companionship  with  woe ! 
Oh,  impious  !  thus  GOD'S  goodness  to  impeach, 
And  war  insanely  with  the  love  divine  ! 

Years  have  gone  by,  and  I — who  long  have  been 
Over  the  earth  a  wanderer,  seeing  oft 
The  grief  I  could  not  heal,  and  hearing  oft 
"  The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity," 
Thus  haply  taught  how  holy  in  its  power 
To  soothe  the  sorrowing  heart  is  sympathy — 
Still  unforgetting,  but  with  calm  regret 
Remembering  the  lost,  as  one  whose  light 
Was  early  quenched  on  earth,  to  be  in  heaven 


WILLIAM     HENRY     BURLEIGH.  393 

Kindled  with  brighter  lustre — stand  once  more 
O'er  all  the  grave  could  claim  of  AGATHA  ! 

How,  through  a  thousand  changes  that  have  passed 
Over  my  life,  through  toils  and  wanderings, 
Temptations,  conflicts,  triumphs,  griefs  and  joys, 
Has  Memory  turned  to  this  thrice-hallowed  spot ! 
And  here  my  thoughts  have  clustered — here  have  dwelt 
Serene  affections  ;  for,  when  Time,  at  length, 
Mellowed  the  sorrow  that  had  been  despair 
To  tenderest  regret,  new  feelings  sprung 
To  life  within  my  soul ;  and  love  for  her 
Whose  smile  had  been  my  sunshine,  thus  became 
Widened  to  love  for  wide  humanity ! 

Oh,  blessed  is  the  ministry  of  Grief, 
When,  with  meek  spirit,  to  its  discipline 
We  bow,  and  know  its  baptism ! — for  the  heart 
Is  thus  made  pure,  with  larger  sympathies, 
With  holier  hopes,  and  sanctified  desires ! 

Here,  then,  dear  AGATHA  !   with  chastened  soul, 
While  solemn  memories  of  the  past  throng  back, 
Filling  my  eye  with  tears,  upon  thy  grave, 
Reverent  I  kneel,  and  on  the  cold,  white  stone 
That  bears  thy  name,  and  tells  the  passer-by 
How  brief  thy  life — how  pure,  it  cannot  tell — 
Trace  with  a  tremulous  hand  my  last  adieu ! 


Henceforth  the  grave  is  blest ! 
Oh,  call  it  dark  no  more,  since  she  is  laid 
In  its  still  depths,  whose  life  a  sunshine  made 

Mid  darkness  manifest, 
Cheering  the  gloom  of  sorrow  and  despair, 
And  pouring  blessings  round  her  every  where ! 

She  taught  us  how  to  live  : 
With  blameless  life  girt  round  with  sanctity, 
Lowly  in  heart,  in  soul  and  purpose  high, 

Sweet  lessons  did  she  give 
Of  Faith,  of  Love,  of  Hope  :  for  all  that  shone 
Brightest  in  Christian  lives,  she  made  her  own. 


394  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

She  taught  us  how  to  die  : 
With  what  a  holy  joy  aside  she  flung 
This  mortal  bondage,  and  exulting  sprung 

To  Immortality ! 

Oh,  who  could  fear  to  tread,  as  she  hath  trod, 
The  path  through  death  that  leadeth  unto  GOD  ? 

Oh,  Grave  !  a  sacred  trust 
To  thee  is  given !  no  common  ashes  sleep 
Within  thy  guardian  arms  ;  securely  keep 

This  consecrated  dust, 
Till,  quickened  with  new  life,  it  shall  arise, 
A  glorious  body,  fitted  for  the  skies ! 


A    NEW   YEAR'S    FANCY. 

Written  at  the  close  of  the  year  1837. 

An  old  man  stood  on  a  precipice-verge — 

A  gray  old  man  was  he  ; 
And  a  saddened  light  was  in  his  eye, 
As  the  mourner  wind  went  sighing  by, 

And  his  glance  was  on  the  sea: 
Below  his  feet  was  the  warring  surge, 
Where  the  crested  waves  each  other  urge 
In  fury  and  wrath  to  the  ragged  rocks, 
That  quiver  not  to  their  mighty  shocks, 

However  fierce  they  be. 

Bowed  with  age  was  the  old  man's  form, 
And  his  cheek  was  deeply  ploughed 
With  the  share  of  Time — or  haply,  Thought 
On  the  old  man's  face  those  furrows  wrought, 

While  his  bearing  yet  was  proud ; 
For  the  blood  of  Youth  may  still  be  warm, 
While  the  brow  bears  record  of  many  a  storm 
That  the  tortured  thought  has  known  within, 
When  the  quickened  spirit  fought  with  sin, 
Or  the  woes  that  on  it  crowd. 

Quaint  was  the  dress  that  the  old  man  wore, 
For  a  queer  old  man  was  he ; 


WILLIAM     HENRY     BURLEIGH. 

His  bony  legs  were  crowded  in 

To  tight  small  breeks  of  a  white  bear's  skin, 

All  buckled  at  the  knee  : 
A  blanket  was  flung  his  shoulders  o'er, 
And  pinned  with  icicles  up  before  ; 
Like  a  thin  snow-wreath,  above  them  all, 
Gleaming  and  bright,  was  a  shadowy  pall : 

'T  was  a  solemn  sight  to  see ! 

With  a  troubled  mind,  the  old  man  thought 
On  the  waves  that  foamed  below ; 

He  tottered  along  to  the  farthest  verge 

Of  the  slippery  rock,  and  viewed  the  surge 
With  an  aspect  full  of  wo  : 

What  in  the  deep  the  old  man  sought. 

Legend  or  lay  revealeth  not ; 

But  his  gaze  was  long,  and  his  eye  grew  dim, 

Till  in  blinding  tears  it  seemed  to  swim : 
Why  wept  the  old  man  so  ? 

Over  his  head  was  a  broken  tree, 

Killed  by  the  lightning-stroke  ; 
And  an  owl  sat  there  with  half-closed  eye, 
And  poured  on  the  air  his  boding  cry, 
Till  the  mountain  echoes  woke : 
And  floating  over  the  solemn  sea, 
A  mournful  dirge  it  seemed  to  be — 
A  mournful  dirge  for  the  buried  dead ; 
And  sadly  the  old  man  raised  his  head, 
And  feebly,  faintly  spoke  : 

"  The  death-song  of  the  Year ! 
It  tells  me  that  my  errand  here  is  done, 
That  I  have  gazed  upon  my  latest  sun — 

What  further  do  I  here  ? 
Trembling  above  the  ocean  of  the  Past, 
Yet  feebly  clinging  while  my  moments  last — 

"  Clinging  to  Life — in  vain  ! 
The  deep  sea  yawns  before  me — 't  is  the  grave 
Of  vanished  Years.     Oblivion's  turbid  wave 

Flings  not  to  light  again 


395 


396  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

'~V^->_/-\^-N^N^>_^^->_/-S-^^~x-^ 

The  buried  treasures  of  the  olden  time, 
Rolling  alike  o'er  Innocence  and  Crime ! 

"  I  go — and  as  I  die, 

The  gay  will  laugh,  forgetful  of  their  doom, 
Frolicking  on  the  borders  of  the  tomb 

In  thoughtless  revelry : 
Let  them  sport  on  beneath  their  sunny  sky ; 
Too  soon,  alas,  the  storm  will  hurtle  by  ! 

"  In  the  lone  closet  now, 

Clasping  the  hallowed  Book,  the  good  man  kneels, 
Communing  with  the  Past,  while  faintly  steals 

Across  his  placid  brow 

The  mournful  light  of  memory,  soft  and  dim : 
Oh,  holy  treasures  hath  this  hour  for  him ! 

"  With  love  that  cannot  tire, 
The  mourning  mother  by  the  cradle-bed 
Watches  her  wailing  infant,  while  its  head 

Burns  with  the  fever-fire  ! 

The  cold  gray  morn  will  come  and  find  her  there, 
The  living  with  the  dead — Death  and  Despair ! 

"  The  giddy  world  wheels  on, 
Unmindful  of  the  lessons  of  the  Past ; 
Yet  one  more  warning — it  will  be  my  last — 

The  Old  Year's  dying  tone  ; 
Mortal !  we  meet  again  :  so  live,  while  here, 
That  you  may  call  your  last  your  happiest  year." 

The  old  man  paused — for  the  icy  rock 

Quivered  beneath  his  tread  ; 
An  angry  sc<3wl  came  over  the  sky, 
And  a  sudden  earthquake  thundered  by — 

'T  was  an  hour  of  fear  and  dread ! 
The  tall  old  mountains  felt  the  shock, 
And  the  sea  heaved  up,  as  if  to  mock 
The  old  man's  terror  and  despair, 
As  he  gurgled  out  his  dying  prayer — 

And  THIRTY-SEVEN  was  dead! 


WILLIAM     HENRY     BURLEIGH.  <39< 

Trembling,  quivering  on  the  air, 
Like  the  solemn  voice  of  prayer 
Heard  amid  the  forests  dim, 
Rose  a  low  and  mournful  hymn  ; 
Faintly  now,  as  if  its  tones 
Trembled  into  dying  rnoans, 
Or  were  almost  hushed  to  peace, 
Waiting  for  the  soul's  release  ; 
Then  again  in  triumph  swelling 
Upward  to  the  spirit's  dwelling, 
Ringing  through  the  clear  blue  sky 
With  a  sudden  melody  ! 

'T  was  the  requiem  of  the  Year, 
Chanted  in  another  sphere  ! 
Fairy  harps  were  faintly  ringing, 
Elfin  voices  low  were  singing, 
While  the  spirits  of  the  air 
Poured  their  willing  music  there  ; 
And,  if  rendered  not  amiss, 
Something  was  their  song  like  this  : 

"  Oh,  weep  for  the  Earth  and  the  children  of  men ! 
Awake  the  sad  music  of  mountain  and  glen ! 
Pour  out  the  deep  voice  of  lament  on  the  blast, 
For  a  Year  hath  gone  down  to  the  grave  of  the  Past ! 

"  A  Year ! — and  the  Earth  waxeth  old  in  its  sin, 
Though  the  fires  of  destruction  burn  hotly  within  ; 
Though  her  end  draweth  near,  and  the  time  will  not  wait 
When  the  voice  of  the  Spoiler  shall  sound  at  her  gate ! 

"  Lament !  for  the  Year,  with  its  promise  of  bliss, 
Hath  gone  from  a  world  full  of  mourning  like  this  ; 
And  the  hopes  that  it  brought  have  been  trampled  in  dust, 
And  its  paths  have  been  paved  with  the  hearts  of  the  just ! 

"  Rejoice  !  for  the  day  of  redemption  draws  nigh ! 
Let  loud  hallelujahs  resound  through  the  sky ! 
Let  the  Years  roll  away,  and  the  darkness  shall  flee  : 
Rejoice  and  exult,  for  THE  EARTH  SHALL  BE  FREE  !" 


JUNE. 

June,  with  its  roses — June  ! 
The  gladdest  month  of  our  capricious  year, 
With  its  thick  foliage,  and  its  sunlight  clear ; 

And  with  the  drowsy  tune 
Of  the  bright  leaping  waters,  as  they  pass 
Laughingly  on  amid  the  springing  grass ! 

Earth,  at  her  joyous  coming, 
Smiles  as  she  puts  her  gayest  mantle  on ; 
And  Nature  greets  her  with  a  benison 

While  myriad  voices,  humming 
Their  welcome  song,  breathe  dreamy  music  round, 
Till  seems  the  air  an  element  of  sound. 

The  over-arching  sky 
Weareth  a  softer  tint,  a  lovelier  blue, 
As  if  the  light  of  heaven  were  melting  through 

Its  sapphire  home  on  high ; 
Hiding  the  sunshine  in  their  vapory  breast, 
The  clouds  float  on,  like  spirits  to  their  rest. 

A  deeper  melody, 

Poured  by  the  birds,  as  o'er  their  callow  young 
Watchful  they  hover,  to  the  breeze  is  flung, 

Gladsome,  yet  not  of  glee — 
Music  heart-born,  like  that  which  mothers  sing 
Above  their  cradled  infants  slumbering. 

On  the  warm  hill-side,  where 
The  sunlight  lingers  latest,  through  the  grass 
Peepeth  the  luscious  strawberry  !     As  they  pass, 

Young  children  gambol  there, 
Crushing  the  gathered  fruit  in  playful  mood, 
And  staining  their  bright  faces  with  its  blood. 

A  deeper  blush  is  given 
To  the  half-ripened  cherry,  as  the  sun 
Day  after  day  pours  warmth  the  trees  upon, 

Till  the  rich  pulp  is  riven  ; 
The  truant  school-boy  looks  with  longing  eyes, 
And  perils  limb  and  neck  to  win  the  prize. 


WILLIAM     HENRY     BURLEIGH. 


399 


The  farmer,  in  his  field, 

Draws  the  rich  mould  around  the  tender  maize  ; 
While  Hope,  bright-pinioned,  points  to  coming  days, 

When  all  his  toil  shall  yield 
An  ample  harvest,  and  around  his  hearth 
There  shall  be  laughing  eyes  and  tones  of  mirth. 

Poised  on  his  rainbow  wing, 
The  butterfly,  whose  life  is  but  an  hour, 
Hovers  coquettishly  from  flower  to  flower, 

A  gay  arid  happy  thing ; 
Born  for  the  sunshine  and  the  summer  day, 
Soon  passing,  like  the  beautiful,  away ! 

These  are  thy  pictures,  June ! 

Brightest  of  summer  months — thou  month  of  flowers  ! 
First-born  of  Beauty,  whose  swift-footed  hours 

Dance  to  the  merry  tune 
Of  birds,  and  waters,  and  the  pleasant  shout 
Of  Childhood  on  the  sunny  hills  pealed  out. 

I  feel  it  were  not  wrong 
To  deem  thou  art  a  type  of  heaven's  clime, 
Only  that  there  the  clouds  and  storms  of  Time 

Sweep  not  the  sky  along ; 
The  flowers,  air,  beauty,  music,  all  are  thine, 
But  brighter,  purer,  lovelier,  more  divine ! 


WE   ARE    SCATTERED 

Written  on  visiting  my  birth-place  after  years  of  absence. 

We  are  scattered — we  are  scattered — 

Though  a  jolly  band  were  we  ! 
Some  sleep  beneath  the  grave-sod, 

And  some  are  o'er  the  sea ; 
And  Time  hath  wrought  his  changes 

On  the  few  who  yet  remain ; 
The  joyous  band  that  once  we  were 

We  cannot  be  again  ! 


400  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

We  are  scattered — we  are  scattered 

Upon  the  village  green, 
Where  we  played  in  boyish  recklessness, 

How  few  of  us  are  seen  ! 
And  the  hearts  that  beat  so  lightly 

In  the  joyousness  of  youth  ; 
Some  are  crumbled  in  the  sepulchre, 

And  some  have  lost  their  truth. 

The  Beautiful — the  Beautiful 

Are  faded  from  our  track ! 
We  miss  them  and  we  mourn  them, 

But  we  cannot  lure  them  back ; 
For  an  iron  sleep  hath  bound  them 

In  its  passionless  embrace  ; 
Wre  may  weep — but  cannot  win  them 

From  their  dreary  resting-place. 

How  mournfully — how  mournfully 

The  memory  doth  come 
Of  the  thousand  scenes  of  happiness 

Around  our  Childhood's  home  ! 
A  salutary  sadness 

Is  brooding  o'er  the  heart, 
As  it  dwells  upon  remembrances 

From  which  it  will  not  part. 

The  memory — the  memory  ! 

How  fondly  doth  it  gaze 
Upon  the  magic  loveliness 

Of  Childhood's  fleeting  days  ! 
The  sparkling  eye — the  thrilling  tone — 

The  smile  upon  its  lips — 
They  all  have  gone ! — but  left  a  light 

Which  Time  cannot  eclipse. 

The  happiness — the  happiness 

Of  boyhood  must  depart ; 
Then  comes  the  sense  of  loneliness 

Upon  the  stricken  heart ! 


WILLIAM     HENRY     BURLEIGH. 

^-*>^^~^^^-^-^^^*s~*^-^s-*>-<^^ 

We  will  not,  or  we  cannot  fling 
Its  sadness  from  our  breast ; 

We  cling  to  it  instinctively, 
We  pant  for  its  unrest ! 

We  are  scattered — we  are  scattered! 

Yet  may  we  meet  again 
In  a  brighter  and  a  purer  sphere, 

Beyond  the  reach  of  pain ! 
Where  the  shadows  of  this  lower  world 

Can  never  cloud  the  eye — 
Where  the  mortal  hath  put  brightly  on 

Its  IMMORTALITY  ! 


401 


SONG. 

Believe  not  the  slander,  my  dearest  KATRINE  ! 

For  the  ice  of  the  world  hath  not  frozen  my  heart ; 
In  my  innermost  spirit  there  still  is  a  shrine 

Where  thou  art  remembered,  all  pure  as  thou  art. 
The  dark  tide  of  years,  as  it  bears  us  along, 

Though  it  sweep  away  Hope  in  its  turbulent  flow, 
Cannot  drown  the  low  voice  of  Love's  eloquent  song, 

Nor  chill  with  its  waters  my  faith's  early  glow. 

True,  the  world  hath  its  snares,  and  the  soul  may  grow  faint 

In  its  strifes  with  the  follies  and  falsehoods  of  earth ; 
And  amidst  the  dark  whirl  of  corruption,  a  taint 

May  poison  the  thoughts  that  are  purest  at  birth. 
Temptations  and  trials,  without  and  within, 

From  the  pathway  of  Virtue  the  spirit  may  lure ; 
But  the  soul  shall  grow  strong  in  its  triumphs  o'er  Sin, 

And  the  heart  shall  preserve  its  integrity  pure. 

The  finger  of  Love,  on  my  innermost  heart, 

Wrote  thy  name,  oh  adored!  when  my  feelings  were  young; 
And  the  record  shall  'bide  till  my  soul  shall  depart, 

And  the  darkness  of  Death  o'er  my  being  be  flung. 


402  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Then  believe  not  the  slander  that  says  I  forget, 

In  the  whirl  of  excitement,  the  love  that  was  thine  ; 

Thou  wert  dear  in  my  boyhood — art  dear  to  me  yet — 
For  my  sunlight  of  life  is  the  smile  of  KATRINE  ! 


MORNING. 

Up,  Sluggard,  from  thy  pallet!     Lo,  the  East 
Heralds  the  coming  of  another  day  ! 
The  burning  Sun  advanceth,  like  a  GOD, 
To  fling  his  wealth  of  light  upon  the  world ; 
And  the  gray  mists  that  in  the  vale  have  slept 
Through  all  the  solemn  night,  are  curling  up, 
Slowly  and  silently,  as  if  to  steal 
The  golden  splendor  from  the  fount  of  day, 
And  weave  it  in  their  undulating  folds ! 
The  conscious  Earth  is  blushing  in  the  light, 
As  a  coy  maiden,  when  she  meets  the  glance 
Of  an  impassioned  lover — and  the  streams, 
Leaping  and  sparkling  in  the  morning  ray, 
Send  gaily  forth  their  gurgling  melody, 
As  if  they  knew  another  day  was  born. 
The  breezes,  fragrance-laden,  have  awaked 
From  their  brief  slumber,  and  are  flitting  now 
On  their  light  pinions  over  hill  and  plain, 
Wooing  the  perfume  from  the  opening  flowers, 
And  dallying  with  the  leaflets.     Every  tree 
Is  vocal  with  the  melody  of  birds  ; 
And  the  awakening  herbage  flings  abroad 
Its  dewy  incense  on  the  odorous  air, 
As  conscious  that  its  Maker  will  accept 
The  grateful  offering — and  many  a  voice 
From  vale,  and  mountain,  and  from  shady  grove, 
Joins  in  the  general  anthem. 


MRS.     LAURA     M.     THURSTON.  403 


MRS.    LAURA    M.    THURSTON. 

[Born  1812.    Died  1842.] 

MRS.  LAURA  M.  THURSTON  was  a  daughter  of  EARL  P.  HAWLEY, 
of  Norfolk,  where  she  was  born  in  December,  1812.  Her  opportu 
nities  for  instruction  in  childhood  were  limited  to  the  common  schools 
of  her  native  town  ;  but  she  afterward  became  a  pupil  of  the 
"  Hartford  Female  Seminary,"  under  the  charge  of  JOHN  P.  BRACE, 
and  pursued  its  complete  course  of  study,  with  great  credit  for 
attainments  in  learning.  After  leaving  the  Seminary,  Miss  HAWLEY 
was  engaged  for  some  time  as  a  teacher  in  New  Milford,  in  Connecti 
cut,  and  afterward  in  the  city  of  Philadelphia.  She  was  subsequently 
employed  as  an  assistant-teacher  in  the  institution  where  she  was 
educated,  at  Hartford,  until,  through  the  recommendation  of  Mr. 
BRACE,  she  was  invited  to  take  charge  of  a  female  school  at  New 
Albany,  in  Indiana.  She  accepted  the  invitation,  and  removed  to 
her  new  home,  where  she  commenced  her  school,  and  continued  it 
with  much  success.  In  September,  1839,  she  was  married  to 
FRANKLIN  THURSTON,  at  that  time  a  merchant  of  New  Albany,  where 
she  continued  to  reside  until  the  time  of  her  death,  which  occurred 
on  the  2 1st  of  July,  1842. 

Mrs.  THURSTON  was  a  talented  writer.  She  contributed  a  number 
of  poetical  articles  to  the  periodicals,  under  the  signature  of  "  Viola," 
some  of  which  obtained  an  extensive  circulation.  We  have  been 
unable  to  procure  as  many  of  them  as  we  could  desire,  or  should 
gladly  give  a  larger  space  to  her  effusions.  They  are  of  a  high  order 
of  merit,  and  "  The  Green  Hills  of  my  Father-Land  "  would  alone 
entitle  her  to  a  place  among  the  poets  of  the  clime  which  she  loved 
so  well.  This  song  of  exile  has  been  justly  said  to  form  a  fit  coun 
terpart  to  the  beautiful  and  prophetic  "  Good  Night "  of  the  lamented 
PETERS. 


ON  CROSSING  THE   ALLEGANIES. 
The  broad,  the  bright,  the  glorious  West, 

Is  spread  before  me  now ! 
Where  the  gray  mists  of  morning  rest 

Beneath  yon  mountain's  brow  ! 
The  bound  is  past,  the  goal  is  won  ; 
The  region  of  the  setting  sun 


404  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Is  open  to  my  view : 
Land  of  the  valiant  and  the  free — 
My  own  Green  Mountain  land — to  thee, 

And  thine,  a  long  adieu ! 

I  hail  thee,  Valley  of  the  West, 

For  what  thou  yet  shalt  be  ! 
I  hail  thee  for  the  hopes  that  rest 

Upon  thy  destiny ! 

Here,  from  this  mountain  height,  I  see 
Thy  bright  waves  floating  to  the  sea, 

Thine  emerald  fields  outspread ; 
And  feel  that,  in  the  book  of  fame, 
Proudly  shall  thy  recorded  name, 

In  later  days,  be  read. 

Yet,  while  I  gaze  upon  thee  now 

All  glorious  as  thou  art, 
A  cloud  is  resting  on  my  brow, 

A  weight  upon  my  heart. 
To  me,  in  all  thy  youthful  pride, 
Thou  art  a  land  of  cares  untried, 

Of  untold  hopes  and  fears  ; 
Thou  art — yet  not  for  thee  I  grieve  ; 
But,  for  the  far-off  land  I  leave, 

I  look  on  thee  with  tears. 


Oh !  brightly,  brightly,  glow  thy  skies 

In  Summer's  sunny  hours! 
The  green  earth  seems  a  paradise 

Arrayed  in  Summer  flowers  ! 
But  oh !  there  is  a  land  afar, 
Whose  skies  to  me  are  brighter  far, 

Along  the  Atlantic  shore  ! 
For  eyes  beneath  their  radiant  shrine, 
In  kindlier  glances  answered  mine  : 

Can  these  their  light  restore  ? 

Upon  the  lofty  bound  I  stand, 
That  parts  the  East  and  West ; 


MRS.     LAURA    M.     THURSTON 

>-X^V^^>^-^^-^-^^-^^-^_x-^-^^>_^^-^^_X^J^v^^^-^^~^_^V^^ 

Before  me,  lies  a  fairy  land ; 

Behind,  a  home  of  rest ! 
Here,  Hope  her  wild  enchantment  flings, 
Portrays  all  bright  and  lovely  things 

My  footsteps  to  allure  ; 
But  there,  in  Memory's  light,  I  see 
All  that  was  once  most  dear  to  me — 

My  young  heart's  cynosure  ! 


405 


THE  PATHS  OF  LIFE. 

An  Address  to  a  Class  of  Girls,  about  leaving  School,  in  Indiana. 

Go  forth  !  the  world  is  very  wide, 

And  many  paths  before  ye  lie, 
Devious,  and  dangerous,  and  untried ; 

Go  forth  with  wary  eye  ! 
Go  !  with  a  heart  by  grief  unbowed ! 
Go  !  ere  a  shadow,  or  a  cloud, 

Hath  dimmed  the  laughing  sky ! 
But,  lest  your  wandering  footsteps  stray, 
Choose  ye  the  straight,  the  narrow  way. 

Go  forth !  the  world  is  very  fair, 

Through  the  dim  distance  as  ye  gaze  ; 

And  mark,  in  long  perspective,  there, 
The  scenes  of  coining  days. 

Orbs  of  bright  radiance  gem  the  sky, 

And  fields  of  glorious  beauty  lie 
Beneath  their  orient  rays  ; 

Yet,  ere  their  altered  light  grow  dim, 

Seek  ye  the  Star  of  Bethlehem ! 

Go  forth  !  within  your  distant  homes 

There  are  fond  hearts  that  mourn  your  stay ; 

There  are  sweet  voices  bid  ye  come ; 
Go  !  ye  must  hence,  away  ! 

No  more  within  the  woodland  bowers 

Your  hands  may  wreathe  the  Summer  flowers, 
No  more  your  footsteps  stray ; 

To  hail  the  hearth,  and  grove,  and  glen, 

Oh,  when  will  ye  return  again ! 


406  POETS      OF     CONNECTICUT. 

-^V_^-X_^_^-X^N^-V^-X^-N_^^-^^_X-^^ 

Not  when  the  Summer  leaves  shall  fade, 
As  now  they  fade  from  shrub  and  tree, 
When  Autumn  winds,  through  grove  and  glade, 

Make  mournful  melody ; 
The  long,  bright,  silent,  Autumn  days, 
The  sunset,  with  its  glorious  blaze, 

These  shall  return — but  ye, 
Though  Time  may  all  beside  restore, 
Ye  may  come  back  to  us  no  more. 

Go !  ye  have  dreamed  a  fairy  dream, 
Of  cloudless  skies  and  fadeless  flowers, 

Of  days  whose  sunny  lapse  shall  seem 
A  fete  mid  festal  bowers  ! 

But  of  the  change,  the  fear,  the  strife, 

The  gathering  clouds,  the  storms  of  life, 
The  blight  of  Autumn  showers, 

Ye  have  no  vision — these  must  be 

Unveiled  by  stern  reality ! 

Ye  yet  must  wake,  (for  Time  and  Care 

Have  ever  wandered  side  by  side,) 
To  find  earth  false,  as  well  as  fair, 

And  weary  too,  as  wide. 
Ye  yet  must  wake,  to  find  the  glow 
Hath  faded  from  the  things  below, 

The  glory  and  the  pride  ! 
To  bind  the  willow  on  the  brow, 
Wreathed  with  the  laurel  garland  now. 

But  wherefore  shall  I  break  the  spell 
That  makes  the  Future  seem  so  bright? 

Why  to  the  young  glad  spirit  tell 
Of  withering  and  blight  ? 

'T  were  better,  when  the  meteor  dies, 

A  steadier,  holier  light  shall  rise, 
Cheering  the  gloomy  night  : 

A  light,  when  others  fade  away, 

Still  shining  on  to  perfect  day. 


MRS.     LAURA    M.    THURSTON. 

Go,  then  !  and  when  no  more  are  seen, 
The  faces  that  ye  now  behold, 

When  years,  long  years,  shall  intervene, 
Sadly  and  darkly  told  ; 

When  Time,  with  stealthy  hand,  shall  trace 

His  mystic  lines  on  every  face, 
Oh,  may  his  touch  unfold 

The  promise  of  that  better  part, 

The  unfading  Spring-time  of  the  heart ! . 


407 


THE  GREEN  HILLS  OF  MY  FATHER-LAND. 

The  green  hills  of  my  Father-land 

In  dreams  still  greet  my  view  ; 
I  see  once  more  the  wave-girt  strand, 

The  ocean-depth  of  blue, 
The  sky,  the  glorious  sky,  outspread 

Above  their  calm  repose, 
The  river,  o'er  its  rocky  bed 

Still  singing  as  it  flows, 
The  stillness  of  the  Sabbath  hours, 

When  men  go  up  to  pray, 
The  sun-light  resting  on  the  flowers, 
The  birds  that  sing  among  the  bowers, 

Through  all  the  Summer  day. 

Land  of  my  birth !  mine  early  love  ! 

Once  more  thine  airs  I  breathe ! 
I  see  thy  proud  hills  tower  above, 

Thy  green  vales  sleep  beneath. 
Thy  groves,  thy  rocks,  thy  murmuring  rills, 

All  rise  before  mine  eyes, 
The  dawn  of  morning  on  thy  hills, 

Thy  gorgeous  sunset  skies  ; 
Thy  forests,  from  whose  deep  recess 

A  thousand  streams  have  birth, 
Gladdening  the  lonely  wilderness, 
And  filling  the  green  silentness 

With  melody  and  mirth. 


408  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 


I  wonder  if  my  home  would  seem 

As  lovely  as  of  yore  ! 
I  wonder  if  the  mountain  stream 

Goes  singing  by  the  door ! 
And  if  the  flowers  still  bloom  as  fair, 

And  if  the  woodbines  clime, 
As  when  I  used  to  train  them  there, 

In  the  dear  olden  time ! 
I  wonder  if  the  birds  still  sing 

Upon  the  garden  tree, 
As  sweetly  as  in  that  sweet  Spring 
Whose  golden  memories  gently  bring 

So  many  dreams  to  me  ! 

I  know  that  there  hath  been  a  change, 

A  change  o'er  hall  and  hearth ! 
Faces  and  footsteps  new  and  strange, 

About  my  place  of  birth ! 
The  heavens  above  are  still  as  bright 

As  in  the  days  gone  by ; 
But  vanished  is  the  beacon  light 

That  cheered  my  morning  sky ! 
And  hill,  and  vale,  and  wooded  glen, 

And  rock,  and  murmuring  stream, 
That  wore  such  glorious  beauty  then, 
Would  seem,  should  I  return  again, 

The  record  of  a  dream ! 

I  mourn  not  for  my  Childhood's  hours, 

Since,  in  the  far-off  West, 
'Neath  sunnier  skies,  in  greener  bowers, 

My  heart  hath  found  its  rest. 
I  mourn  not  for  the  hills  and  streams 

That  chained  my  steps  so  long, 
Yet  still  I  see  them  in  my  dreams, 

And  hail  them  in  my  song ; 
And  often,  by  the  hearth-fire's  blaze, 

When  Winter  eves  shall  come, 
We  '11  sit  and  talk  of  other  days, 
And  sing  the  well-remembered  lays 

Of  my  Green  Mountain  home ! 


MRS.     LAURA    M.     THURSTON. 


409 


PARTING  HYMN. 

Sung  at  the  close  of  the  Anniversary  Exercises  of  the  New  Albany  Theo 
logical  Seminary. 

Brethren,  we  are  parting  now, 

Here  perchance  to  meet  no  more  : 
Well  may  sorrow  cloud  each  brow, 

That  another  dream  is  o'er. 
Life  is  fraught  with  changeful  dreams, 

Ne'er  to-rnorrow  as  to  day ; 
Scarce  we  catch  their  transient  gleams, 

Ere  they  melt  and  fade  away. 

But,  upon  the  brow  of  night, 

See  the  Morning  Star  arise ; 
With  unchanging,  holy  light 

Gilding  all  the  Eastern  skies. 
Bethlehem's  Star  !  of  yore  it  blazed, 

Gleaming  on  Judea's  brow, 
While  the  wondering  Magi  gazed ; 

Brethren,  let  it  guide  us  now. 

Guide  us  over  land  and  sea, 

Where  the  tribes  in  darkness  mourn, 
Where  no  Gospel  jubilee 

Bids  the  ransomed  ones  return  ; 
Or,  beneath  our  own  blue  skies, 

Where  our  green  savannahs  spread, 
Let  us  bid  that  Star  arise, 

And  its  beams  of  healing  shed. 

Shall  we  shrink  from  pain  and  strife 

While  our  Captain  leads  the  way  ? 
Shall  we,  for  the  love  of  life, 

Cast  a  Saviour's  love  away  ? 
Rather  gird  his  armor  on, 

Fight  the  battles  of  the  LORD, 
'Till  the  victory  be  won, 

And  we  gain  our  long  reward. 

Oh !  may  many  a  radiant  gem, 
Souls  redeemed  by  us  from  woe, 


410  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Sparkle  in  the  diadem 

That  our  Leader  shall  bestow. 

Change  and  trial  here  may  come ; 
But  no  grief  may  haunt  the  breast, 

When  we  reach  our  heavenly  home, 
Find  our  everlasting  rest. 

Broken  is  our  household  band, 

Hushed  awhile  our  evening  hymn  ; 
But  there  is  a  better  land, 

Where  no  tears  the  eye  shall  dim : 
There  is  heard  no  farewell  tone, 

On  that  bright  and  peaceful  shore ; 
There  no  parting  grief  is  known, 

For  they  meet  to  part  no  more. 


ELEGIAC   STANZAS. 
She  sleepeth  :  and  the  Summer  breezes,  sighing, 

Shedding  the  green  leaves  on  the  fountain's  breast, 
And  the  soft  murmur  of  the  stream,  replying 

Unto  their  melody,  break  not  her  rest. 

I  know  thy  hearth  is  lonely :  that  thy  dwelling 
No  more  may  echo  to  that  loved  one's  tread ; 

I  know  too  well  thy  widowed  heart  is  swelling 
With  silent  grief :  yet  weep  not  for  the  dead. 

She  yet  shall  waken :  on  that  morning  glorious 
When  day  shall  evermore  displace  the  night ; 

O'er  time,  and  care,  and  change,  and  death  victorious, 
A  holy  seraph  in  the  land  of  light. 

Yes,  she  shall  waken  :  not  to  earthly  sorrow, 
Not  to  the  blight  of  care,  the  thrill  of  pain ; 

Wake  to  the  day  that  ne'er  shall  know  a  morrow, 
To  life  that  may  not  yield  to  Death  again. 

She  rests  in  peace  :  for  her  forbear  thy  weeping  : 
Thou  soon  shalt  meet  her  in  the  world  on  high: 

The  care-worn  form  in  yonder  grave  is  sleeping, 
But  the  freed  spirit  lives  beyond  the  sky. 


MARTHA    DAY.  411 


MARTHA    DAY. 

[Born  1813.    Died  1833.] 

MARTHA  DAY  was  the  eldest  daughter  of  JEREMIAH  DAY,  LL.  D., 
President  of  Yale  College,  and  was  born  at  New  Haven,  on  the  13th 
•of  February,  1813.  She  was  furnished  by  her  parents  with  every 
advantage  for  an  excellent  education,  and  developed  talents  of  an 
uncommon  order,  and  especially  a  talent  for  poetical  composition. 
For  several  years  she  was  a  member  of  a  female  school  in  New 
Haven,  under  the  care  of  the  Rev.  CLAUDIUS  HERRICK.  She  was 
afterward  connected,  in  the  two-fold  capacity  of  pupil  and  assistant- 
teacher,  with  a  boarding-school  at  Greenfield,  in  Massachusetts, 
under  the  charge  of  the  Rev.  HENRY  JONES,  and  was  subsequently  a 
pupil  for  one  year  in  the  "  Young  Ladies  Institute,"  in  New  Haven. 
She  maintained  in  school  a  high  rank  in  scholarship,  and  became 
conspicuous  for  fine  talent  in  composition.  "  The  Comet's  Flight," 
one  of  her  best  poetical  pieces,  was  read  at  one  of  the  examinations 
of  the  last  mentioned  seminary. 

After  leaving  school,  Miss  DAY  continued  her  studies;  and  at  the 
time  of  her  early  and  sudden  death,  which  occurred  on  the  2d  of 
December,  1833,  was  accomplished  beyond  the  usual  attainments  of 
her  sex.  She  was  versed  in  Mathematics  and  Mental  Philosophy, 
possessed  a  good  knowledge  of  the  Latin  and  French  languages,  and 
had  made  no  inconsiderable  progress  in  the  Greek  and  German. 
She  devoted  much  of  her  time  to  the  study  of  the  standard  authors 
of  her  native  tongue,  and  had  acquired  a  good  knowledge  of  English 
literature.  A  small  volume  of  her  "  Literary  Remains,"  accompanied 
by  memorials  of  her  life  and  character,  was  published  in  New  Haven, 
in  1834.  It  contains,  with  other  writings,  all  her  poetical  articles 
which  had  been  preserved.  They  were  hasty  effusions,  prompted 
by  ardent  feeling,  and  were  viewed  with  but  little  favor  by  their 
author.  They  are,  however,  the  work  of  a  vigorous  imagination, 
and  exhibit  an  elevation  of  thought  and  expression  which  cannot  be 
regarded,. in  connection  with  the  early  age  at  which  their  authoress 
was  removed,  without  a  sentiment  of  admiration  rising  almost  to 
wonder. 


412  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

THE   DOVE.* 

The  window  is  open,  the  bird  is  free, 
And  away  she  flies,  o'er  the  shoreless  sea ; 
Hope  swells  high  in  her  panting  breast : 
Soon  shall  she  rind  her  balmy  nest, 
And  the  young  that  there  so  sweetly  rest. 
Upward  she  soars,  through  the  ether  blue ; 
'T  is  Ocean  all,  beneath  her  view. 
The  sun,  as  he  rises,  the  waters  lave, 
And  the  wan  moon  dips  in  the  western  wave. 
Have  the  waters  wrapped  her  valley  fair, 
With  its  twilight  shades,  and  its  scented  air, 
And  the  melody  ringing  the  livelong  day  ? 
The  young  she  has  nourished,  oh,  where  are  they  ? 
Far,  far  she  darts  her  piercing  eye  ; 
Billow  on  billow  is  heaving  high ; 
Palaces,  towers,  in  sunder  riven, 
Are  restlessly  over  the  waters  driven  ; 
Rocks  and  hills  from  their  roots  uprent, 
Are  dashed  on  high  to  the  firmament ; 
Then  down,  with  a  heavy  plunge,  they  go, 
To  the  awful  gulfs  that  boil  below. 

'T  is  evening  :  on  her  weary  wing, 
The  chill  night-damps  are  gathering ; 
From  her  breast,  the  last,  faint  hope  has  fled ; 
Nought  is  left  there  but  woe  and  dread ; 
Yet  some  kind  spirit  doth  sustain 
Her  trembling  form,  and  swimming  brain. 
The  billows  have  died  on  the  weary  sea — 
It  glitters  brightly,  quiveringly, 
To  the  pale,  cold  stars,  that  shine  on  high, 
Down  from  the  depths  of  a  violet  sky, 
And  the  moon,  soft  shining  in  the  east, 
With  a  veil  of  spray  on  her  frozen  breast. 
On  speeds  the  dove,  on  her  errand  lone; 
All  forms  of  death  are  beneath  her  strown. 
A  ghastly  head  comes  floating  by, 
Despair  and  rage  in  its  glassy  eye  ; 

*  Genesis  viii :  8,  9. 


MARTHA     DAY. 

A  graceful  bird,  with  her  plumage  torn  ; 

A  gem-bright  robe,  that  a  king  hath  worn ; 

Into  its  folds  hath  a  serpent  crept, 

And  fearless,  and  harmless,  there  hath  slept. 

High,  in  the  midst  of  the  ruin  wide, 

A  mountain  heaves  his  rocky  side ; 

Far  within,  is  a  cavern  deep, 

Where  the  winds  and  the  waters  in  quiet  sleep ; 

Oh,  in  the  calm  of  its  peaceful  breast, 

Cannot  the  weary  bird  find  rest ! 

The  waters  ceaseless  ebb  and  flow, 

With  a  soft,  low  wail,  as  they  come  and  go  ; 

And  the  moonbeam  plays,  with  a  rainbow-light, 

Through  the  lofty  vaults,  with  crystals  bright. 

On  a  rock,  that  juts  from  the  craggy  side, 

Lifting  its  head  from  the  swelling  tide, 

Is  a  fair  maid,  resting,  like  one  in  sleep, 

Oh,  but  her  slumber  is  all  too  deep ! 

Yet  bright  is  her  form,  in  the  gorgeous  ray, 

That,  with  changeful  softness,  doth  o'er  her  play  ; 

Still  lies  the  rose  on  her  rounded  cheek, 

And  her  lips  are  parted,  as  if  to  speak ; 

The  waters  heave,  her  form  beneath, 

And  her  bosom  rises,  but  not  to  breathe  ; 

A  bright  sea-spirit  is  hovering  there, 

Watching  the  swell  on  that  breast  so  fair : 

"  Oh.  doth  she  not  live  !  "  will  he  trembling  say, 

Till  the  tide  sinks  down,  from  her  limbs  away. 

He  hath  dried  and  parted  her  raven  curls, 

And  wreathed  them  thick,  with  his  richest  pearls  ; 

He  hath  laid  on  her  bosom  each  opened  hand, 

And  filled  it  with  flowers  of  her  own  sweet  land, 

And  wrapped  her  in  the  embalming  air, 

That  flows  from  the  sea-flowers,  pale  and  fair. 

Ages  on  ages  have  rolled  away, 

Since  first  that  maid  in  the  cavern  lay ; 

And  still  she  lies  in  her  gorgeous  tomb, 

And  still  on  her  cheek  is  the  life-like  bloom  ; 

And  the  tide  yet  heaves  her  limbs  beneath, 

And  her  breast  yet  rises,  but  not  to  breathe  ; 


POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

And  still  the  spirit  is  hovering  there, 

Watching  the  swell  on  that  bosom  fair. 

So  faded  is  he,  with  the  wasting  woe, 

His  form,  like  a  thin,  white  cloud,  doth  show ; 

All  power,  but  the  fire  of  his  eyes,  hath  fled, 

Yet  still  will  he  love  the  thankless  dead. 

Oh,  sad  is  the  heart  of  the  water  sprite, 

As  he  watcheth  her  there,  in  the  long,  cold  night; 

For  the  sharks  come  up  to  the  silent  cave, 

And  the  tempests  wake,  and  around  him  rave  ; 

He  looketh  forth,  with  his  sad,  bright  eye, 

And  the  sharks  behold,  and  in  terror  fly, 

And  the  billows  bow  their  heads,  and  die. 

But  when  the  darkness  away  hath  rolled, 

And  the  ripples  dance  in,  with  their  crests  of  gold, 

The  sea-maids  up  through  the  brightening  deep, 

From  the  halls,  where  their  revels  they  nightly  keep, 

In  glittering  groups,  to  the  cavern-tomb, 

With  clouds,  and  odors,  and  music,  come  ; 

And  they  lull  the  sprite,  with  a  sad,  wild  song, 

And  his  dreams  are  sweet,  and  his  rest  is  long. 


Her  flight  is  over,  her  errand  done ; 
Rest  to  thy  pinions,  weary  one  ! 
A  brighter  day  for  thee  shall  come, 
When  Earth  shall  burst  her  billowy  tomb ; 
And  the  green  hill-tops,  and  the  dewy  trees 
Shall  meet  the  sun  and  the  soothing  breeze. 
And  happier  still  shall  be  the  day, 
When  Ocean  hath  fled  from  the  lands  away  ; 
When  verdure  and  flowers  shall  deck  the  shore, 
Then  shalt  thou  go  and  return  no  more  ; 
Thou  shalt  find  thee  a  greener  and  shadier  vale, 
Where,  fresher  and  sweeter,  shall  flow  the  gale  ; 
Thou  shalt  find  thee  a  tree,  with  a  thick,  dark  breast, 
There  shalt  thou  build  thee  another  nest ; 
And  dovelets  there,  for  thy  loved  ones  slain, 
Shall  nestle  beneath  thy  breast  again. 


MARTHA     DAY.  415 

THE  COMET'S  FLIGHT. 

It  happened  once,  that  a  straggling  ray 
From  the  solar  system,  lost  its  way, 

And  it  came  to  a  Comet's  den ; 
And  it  roused  him  up  from  his  long,  long  sleep, 
And  he  sprung  from  his  cavern  in  chaos  deep, 

To  visit  the  Sun  again. 

So  long  he  had  lain  in  his  dungeon  cold, 
His  joints  felt  exceedingly  stiff  and  cold, 

And  he  scarce  could  move  a  limb  ; 
But,  in  spite  of  his  sharp,  rheumatic  pain, 
He  shook  his  limbs,  and  he  combed  his  mane, 

And  put  himself  soon  in  trim. 

Then  forth  he  sprung  on  the  realm  of  Night ; 
All  Chaos  stared  at  his  crazy  flight, 

And  a  terrible  tumult  made  ; 
And  torrents  of  cloud,  and  flood,  and  flame, 
Up  from  her  dark  abysses  came, 

But  nothing  the  monster  stayed. 

On,  on  he  went,  as  the  lightning  fast, 

Till  the  realm  of  destruction  and  darkness  past ; 

Glad  was  the  Comet  then  ; 

For  behind  lay  the  kingdom  of  Night  and  Death, 
And  he  saw  the  light,  and  he  breathed  the  breath, 

Of  the  starry  world  again. 

That  lovely  world,  with  its  bounds  of  blue, 
Lay  far  and  wide  in  the  Comet's  view, 

As  he  stayed  his  course  to  gaze  ; 
And  he  hung  like  one  in  a  joyful  trance, 
Watching  the  stars  in  their  mystic  dance 

Through  many  a  glittering  maze. 

By  millions  and  millions,  the  orbs  of  light 
Solemnly  moved,  in  their  courses  bright, 

And,  from  far,  to  his  ravished  ears, 
Seemed,  like  a  breeze,  to  swell  and  die 
A  clear  and  awful  harmony : 

'T  was  the  music  of  the  spheres  ! 


POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

And  gentle  gales  came  floating  there, 
Gales  of  the  soft  etherial  air ; 

And,  at  their  reviving  breath, 
Down,  down  he  plunged,  on  his  heedless  way, 
And  woe  to  all  in  his  path  that  lay, 

In  his  fiery  path  of  death ! 

By  many  a  rolling  star  he  flew, 

With  her  glittering  seas  and  her  lands  of  blue, 

But  in  lonelines  he  fared ; 
For,  with  pallid  beams,  they  shrunk  away, 
And  hid  themselves  from  his  deadly  ray, 

As  he  wildly  on  them  glared. 

But  once,  too  near  to  his  fearful  blaze, 
One  tiny  planet  came  forth  to  gaze, 

From  her  path  of  light  afar  ; 
And  the  Comet  withered  the  waving  trees, 
And  blighted  the  lands,  and  dried  the  seas, 

Of  the  venturous  little  star. 

Swifter  and  swifter,  the  Comet  flew, 
Brighter  and  brighter,  his  radiance  grew, 

When  the  glorious  Sun  was  nea^ ; 
But  the  planets  wished  him  back  again, 
And  fast  asleep  in  his  midnight  den, 

For  their  orbs  were  thrilled  with  fear. 

Saturn  called  loudly  each  frightened  moon, 
And  they  gathered,  for  safety,  behind  him  soon, 

And  peeped  through  his  ring  of  gold ; 
Jove  drew  his  girdle  around  him  tight, 
And  called  on  Mars  to  prepare  for  fight : 

But  the  courage  of  Mars  was  cold. 

Soon  he  came  near  to  the  beautiful  Earth  ; 
Hushed  were  her  murmurs  of  joy  and  mirth, 

When  she  saw  that  direful  ray  ; 
And  the  pallid  Moon  behind  her  fled, 
And  covered  with  clouds  her  fainting  head, 

And,  concealed  in  darkness,  lay. 


MARTHA     DAY.  417 

Venus  in  splendor  he  could  not  dim ; 
Her  eye  of  glory  beamed  on  him, 

And  where  was  his  savage  heart  ? 
One  glance  of  love  he  backward  cast, 
And  trimmed  his  beams,  as  he  onward  passed, 

And  in  sadness  did  depart. 

Mercury  fled  in  dismay  at  the  sight ; 
The  Comet  laughed  to  behold  his  fright, 

And  erected  his  mane  of  flame. 
But  now,  his  fiery  course  was  done, 
His  long  and  trackless  race  was  run. 

For  unto  the  Sun  he  came. 

But  should  I  tell  you  the  conference  dire, 
That  was  held  between  these  orbs  of  fire, 

Your  every  hair  would  rise  ! 
So,  now  I  descend  to  earth  again, 
Ere  the  height  has  turned  my  giddy  brain, 

Or  the  glory  dimmed  my  eyes 


HYMN.* 
Father  Almighty! 
From  thy  high  seat  thou  watchest  and  controllest 

The  insects  that  upon  thy  footstool  creep, 
While,  with  a  never  wearied  hand,  thou  rollest 

Millions  of  worlds  along  the  boundless  deep$ 
Oh,  Father !  now  the  clouds  hang  blackening  o  er  us, 

And  the  dark,  boiling  deeps  beneath  us  yawn  : 
Scatter  the  tempests,  quell  the  waves  before  us  ; 

To  the  wild,  fearful  night,  send  thou  a  blessed  dawn. 

Father  All  Holy ! 
When  thou  shalt  sit  upon  thy  throne  of  glory, 

The  steadfast  earth,  the  strong,  untiring  sea, 
Their  verdant  isles,  their  mountains,  high  and  hoary, 

With  awe  and  fear,  shall  from  thy  presence  flee. 

*  The  Author  thought  of  writing  a  dramatic  piece,  founded  on  some  portion 
of  the  history  of  David,  and  designed  to  insert  this  hymn  in  the  Drama. 


418  POETS    OF    CONNECTICUT. 

Then  shalt  thou  sit  a  Judge,  the  guilty  dooming 
To  adamantine  chains  and  endless  fire  : 

Oh,  Father !  how  may  we  abide  thy  coming  ? 

Where  find  a  shelter  from  the  pure  JEHOVAH'S  ire  ? 

Father  All  Merciful ! 
Still  may  the  guilty  come  in  peace  before  thee, 

Bathing  thy  feet  with  tears  of  love  and  woe ; 
And  while  for  pardon  only  we  implore  thee, 

Blessings  divine,  unnumbered,  o'er  us  flow. 
Father,  her  heart  from  all  her  idols  tearing, 

Thine  erring  child  again  would  turn  to  thee ; 
To  thee  she  bends,  trembling,  yet  not  despairing, 

From  fear,  remorse,  and  sin,  oh,  Father!  set  her  free! 


LINES 

On  Psalm  cii :  25,  26. 

The  boundless  universe, 
All  that  it  hath  of  splendor  and  of  life, 
The  living,  moving  worlds,  in  their  bright  robes, 
Of  blooming  lands,  and  heaving,  glittering  waters, 
Even  the  still  and  holy  depths  of  heaven, 
Where  the  glad  planets  bathe  in  floods  of  light, 
For  ever  pouring  from  a  thousand  suns, 
All,  all,  are  but  the  garments  of  our  GOD, 
^ea,  the  dark  foldings  of  his  outmost  skirts  ! 
Mortal !  who  with  a  trembling,  longing  heart, 
Watchest,  in  silence,  the  few  rays  that  steal, 
In  their  kind  dimness,  to  thy  feeble  sight — 
Watch  on,  in  silence,  till  within  thy  soul, 
Bearing  away  each  taint  of  sin  and  death, 
Springs  the  hid  fountain  of  immortal  life  ! 
Then  shall  the  mighty  vail  asunder  rend, 
And  o'er  the  spirit,  living,  strong,  and  pure, 
Shall  the Tull  glories  of  the  GODHEAD  flow! 


MARY     ANN     HANMER     DODD.  419 


MARY    ANN    HANMER    DODD. 

[Born  1813.] 

MARY  ANN  HANMER  DODD,  the  daughter  of  ELISHA  DODD,  was 
born  at  Hartford,  on  the  5th  of  March,  1813,  and  has  always  resided 
in  that  city.  She  was  at  school  at  Wethersfield,  and'  in  her  native 
town,  where  she  completed  her  studies  in  1830,  at  Mrs.  KINNEAR'S 
Seminary.  Her  first  published  articles  appeared  in  1834,  in  the 
"  Hermethenean,"  a  magazine  conducted  by  the  students  of  Wash 
ington  College,  in  Hartford.  She  wrote  but  little,  however,  until 
1835,  since  which  time  she  has  been  a  frequent  contributor  to  "  The 
Ladies'  Repository,"  a  magazine  published  in  Boston,  in  which,  and 
in  the  "  Rose  of  Sharon,"  an  Annual,  the  greater  part  of  her  writings 
have  appeared.  No  collection  of  them  has  yet  been  made. 

Miss  DODD  is  a  graceful  writer,  of  fancy  and  feeling ;  and  although 
her  writings  have  been  few,  they  have  not  been  wanting  in  the 
elements  of  true  poetry. 


TO   A  MOURNER. 

"Blessed  are  they  that  mourn;  for  they  shall  be  comforted." 

Thou  weepest  for  a  sister !  in  the  bloom 

And  spring-time  of  her  years  to  Death  a  prey ; 
Shrouded  from  love  by  the  remorseless  tomb, 

Taken  from  all  life's  joys  and  griefs  away. 
'T  is  hard  to  part  with  one  so  sudden  called, 

So  young,  so  happy,  and  so  dearly  loved ; 
To  see  the  arrow  at  our  idol  hurled, 

And  vainly  pray  the  shaft  may  be  removed. 

Young,  loving,  and  beloved!  oh,. cruel  Death! 

Couldst  thou  not  spare  the  treasure  for  a  while  ? 
There  are  warm  hearts  that  wait  to  yield  their  breath, 

And  aged  eyes  that  can  no  longer  smile. 
Why  pass  the  weary  pilgrims  on  their  way, 

Bowed  down  with  toil,  and  sighing  for  relief, 
To  make  the  blossom  in  its  pride  thy  prey, 

Whose  joyous  heart  had  never  tasted  grief? 


420 


POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 


Sad  sister,  turn  not  hopelessly  away ; 

Nor  longer  at  the  will  of  HEAVEN  repine ; 
Fold  not  thy  hands  in  agony  and  say 

"  There  is  no  sorrow  in  the  world  like  mine." 
Oh,  could  my  numbers  soothe  the  sinking  soul, 

Or  one  hope  waken  with  the  wreath  I  twine ! 
Soft  sounds  of  sympathy  around  thee  roll, 

Warm  from  a  heart  that  knows  such  pain  as  thine ! 

I,  too,  have  been  a  mourner.     Sorrow  deep 

Its  lava-tide  around  my  pathway  rolled ; 
And  sable  weeds  a  hue  could  never  keep, 

Sad  as  the  heart  they  hid  beneath  their  fold. 
All  joy  grew  dim  before  my  tearful  eye, 

Which  but  the  shadow  of  the  grave  could  see ; 
There  was  no  brightness  in  the  earth  or  sky, 

There  was  no  sunshine  in  the  world  for  me. 

Oh,  bitter  was  the  draught  from  Sorrow's  cup. 

And  stern  the  anguish  which  my  spirit  wrung, 
When  I  was  called  to  give  my  idol  up, 

And  bend  a  mourner  o'er  the  loved  and  young. 
And  for  the  lost  to  weep  is  still  my  choice ; 

I  ask  for  one  whose  pilgrimage  is  o'er, 
And  vainly  listen  for  a  vanished  voice, 

Whose  pleasant  tones  shall  greet  my  ear  no  more. 

There  is  a  spell  around  my  spirit  cast : 

A  shadow  where  the  sunbeam  smiled  before : 
'T  is  grief,  but  all  its  bitterness  is  past ; 

'T  is  sorrow,  but  its  murmurings  are  o'er. 
Within  my  soul,  which  to  the  storm  was  bowed, 

Now  the  white  wing  of  Peace  is  folded  deep ; 
And  I  have  found,  I  trust,  behind  the  cloud, 

The  blessing  promised  to  the  eyes  that  weep. 

So  thou  wilt  find  relief.     For  deepest  woe 
A  fount  of  healing  in  our  pathway  springs : 

Like  Lethe's  stream,  that  silver  fountain's  flow 
A  soothing  draught  unto  the  sufferer  brings. 


MARY    ANN    HANMER    DODD. 

A  Father  chastened  thee  !  oh,  look  to  Him ! 

And  his  dear  love  in  all  thy  trials  see  ; 
Look  with  the  eye  of  faith  through  shadows  dim, 

And  he  will  send  "  the  COMFORTER"  to  thee. 


421 


THE   DREAMER. 

"  A  dark,  cold  calm,  which  nothing  now  can  break, 
Or  warm,  or  brighten,  like  that  Syrian  lake, 
Upon  whose  surface,  Morn  and  Summer  shed 
Their  smiles  in  vain,  for  all  beneath  is  dead." 

Heart  of  mine,  why  art  thou  dreaming ! 

Dreaming  through  the  weary  day ! 
While  life's  precious  hours  are  wasting, 

Fast,  and  unimproved,  away  1 

With  a  world  of  beauty  round  me, 
Lone  and  sad,  I  dwell  apart ; 

Changing  scenes  can  bring  no  pleasure, 
To  this  wrecked  and  worn-out  heart. 

Now  I  tempt  the  quiet  Ocean, 
While  the  sky  is  bright  above, 

And  the  sunlight  rests  around  me, 
Like  the  beaming  smile  of  Love, 

Or  by  waters,  softly  flowing 

Through  the  vale,  I  wander  now ; 

And  the  balmy  breath  of  Summer, 
Fans  my  cheek,  and  cools  my  brow. 

But  as  well,  to  me,  might  darken, 
Over  all,  the  gloom  of  night ; 

For  no  quick  and  sweet  sensations, 
Fill  my  soul  with  new  delight. 

In  the  grass-grown,  silent  church-yard, 

With  a  listless  step,  I  rove  ; 
And  I  shed  no  tear  of  sorrow 

By  the  graves  of  those  I  love. 

Could  I  weep,  the  spell  might  vanish ; 

Tears  would  bring  my  heart  relief; 
Heart  so  sealed  to  all  emotion, 

Dead  alike  to  joy  and  grief. 

36 


422  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

When  the  storm  that  shook  my  spirit, 
Left  its  mission  finished  there, 

Then  a  calm  more  fearful  followed, 
Than  the  wildness  of  despair. 

Whence  the  spell  that  chills  my  being? 

Bidding  every  passion  cease  ; 
Closing  every  fount  of  feeling  ? 

Say,  my  spirit,  is  it  peace  ? 

Wake  !  oh,  spell-bound  soul,  awaken ! 

Bid  this  sad  delusion  flee  ! 
Such  a  lengthened  dream  is  fearful ; 

Such  a  peace  is  not  for  thee. 

Life  is  thine,  and  "  life  is  earnest ; " 
Toil  and  grief  thou  canst  not  shun ; 

But  be  hopeful  and  believing, 
Till  the  prize  of  faith  is  won. 

Then  the  peace  thou  shalt  inherit, 
By  the  Saviour  promised  free  ; 

Peace,  the  world  destroyeth  never ; 
Father,  give  that  peace  to  me  ! 


TO  A   CRICKET. 

Cease,  cricket !  cease  thy  melancholy  song ! 
Its  chiming  cadence  falls  upon  my  ear 
With  such  a  saddening  influence  all  day  long, 
I  cannot  bear  those  mournful  notes  to  hear ; 
Notes  that  will  often  start  the  unbidden  tear, 
And  wake  the  heart  to  memories  of  old  days, 
When  life  knew  not  a  sorrow  or  a  fear : 
For  ever  basking  in  the  sunny  rays 
Which  seem  so  passing  bright  to  youth's  all  trustful  gaze. 

Once  more  my  steps  are  stayed  at  eventide, 
Beneath  the  fairest  moon  that  ever  shone  ; 
Where  the  old  oak  threw  out  its  branches  wide 
Over  the  low  roof  of  mine  early  home  ; 


MARY     ANN     HANMER     DODD.  423 

Ere  yet  my  bosom  knew  a  wish  to  roam 
From  the  broad  shelter  of  that  ancient  tree ; 
Or  dreamed  of  other  lands  beside  our  own, 
Beyond  the  boundary  of  that  flowery  lea ; 
For  the  green  valley  there  was  world  enough  for  me. 

A  group  are  gathered  round  the  household  hearth, 
Where  chilly  Autumn  bids  the  bright  flame  play ; 
And  social  converse  sweet,  and  Childhood's  mirth, 
Swiftly  beguile  the  lengthened  eve  away  : 
A  laughing  girl  shakes  back  her  tresses  gay, 
With  a  half-doubtful  look,  and  wondering  tone — 
"  Hark !  there  is  music  !  do  you  hear  the  lay  ? 
Mother,  what  is  it  singing  in  the  stone  ? 
Some  luckless  fairy  wight  imprisoned  there  alone  ?  " 

'T  is  Memory  all  which  doth  the  spell  renew  ; 
And  though  thy  notes  may  strike  the  "electric  chain," 
Thou  canst  not  bring  those  buried  forms  to  view, 
Or  give  me  back  my  happy  days  again. 
Alone — I  am  alone  !  these  tears  in  vain 
For  the  loved  tenants  of  the  tomb  are  given ; 
They  sleep  :  no  more  to  suffer  grief  or  pain, 
No  more  to  gaze  upon  the  starlit  heaven, 
Or  with  hushed  hearts  to  list  thy  solemn  strain  at  even. 

Wake  not  remembrance  thus  !  for  stern  the  fate 
That  marks  my  pathway  with  a  weary  doom ; 
And  to  a  heart  so  worn  and  desolate, 
Thy  boding  voice  may  add  a  deeper  gloom. 
Though  few  the  clouds  which  o'er  the  blue  sky  roam, 
And  green  the  livery  of  our  forest  bowers, 
To  warn  us  of  a  sure  decay  ye  come, 
In  sable  guise,  trailing  the  faded  flowers, 
Singing  the  death-song  sad  of  Summer's  waning  hours. 

Those  emerald  robes  will  change  to  russet  brown, 
Which  Summer  over  vale  and  hill-side  cast ; 
To  other  skies  that  know  no  wintry  frown, 
Bright  birds  shall  wing  their  weary  way  at  last ; 
And  Autumn's  hectic  hues  which  fade  so  fast, 


424  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Will  make  the  dark  old  woods  awhile  look  gay ; 
But  Death  must  come  when  the  rare  show  is  past : 
Then  cease  thy  chant,  dark  prophet  of  decay ! 
I  cannot  bear  to  hear  thy  melancholy  lay! 


DAY-DREAMING. 

How  do  the  memories  we  love, 

Come  like  a  fairy  spell, 
When  far  away,  the  banished  heart 

Will  on  home-tokens  dwell. 

One  smooth,  bright  curl  of  auburn  hair, 

Doth  round  my  finger  twine, 
And  then  I  see  the  fair  brow,  where 

Its  sister  tresses  shine. 

I  muse  :  and  in  my  waking  dream, 

Swiftly  sweet  visions  come  ; 
And  Fancy  leads  me  gently  back 

To  thee,  mine  own  green  home. 

The  summer  rose  is  blooming  now, 

Throwing  its  fragrance  wide  ; 
Again  I  breathe  the  mountain  air, 

And  Thou  art  by  my  side  : 

Thou !  whose  dear  presence  from  my  thoughts 

Can  every  care  beguile, 
With  thy  sweet  words  of  innocence, 

And  ever  sunny  smile. 

Once  more  those  blue,  mirth-loving  eyes, 

Upon  my  pathway  shine, 
And  as  I  view  each  well-known  spot, 

Thy  bright  glance  follows  mine. 

We  stray  in  quiet  converse,  where 

The  sun-lit  waters  glance, 
Or  read,  beneath  the  elm  tree's  shade, 

Some  tale  of  old  romance. 


MARY    ANN    HANMER    DODD. 

I  see  thy  heart's  deep  tenderness 

Told  in  its  mirror  fair, 
As  every  thought  the  poet  loves, 

Finds  its  own  echo  there. 

And  when  the  twilight  shadows  fall, 

Forbidding  far  to  roam, 
That  voice  of  wave-like  melody     t 

Is  singing  "  home  !  sweet  home  !  " 

'T  is  gone  !  and  I  am  left  alone — 

Faded  the  vision  fair  ! 
My  clasping  fingers  only  hold 

The  lock  of  satin  hair. 

While  others  doat  on  gems  of  price, 
One  treasured  tress  is  mine  ; 

And  many  a  dear  day-dream  I  owe 
To  this  bright  curl  of  thine. 


425 


JUNE. 

I  sing  thy  beauties  now, 
Month  of  the  golden  morn  and  sunny  noon ; 
For  fairest  of  the  sister-three  art  thou. 

Oh  lovely,  smiling  June ! 

How  gay  this  world  of  ours, 
When  thou  dost  all  around  rich  roses  fling ; 
And  to  the  hill-side,  and  the  garden  bowers, 

Bloom  in  profusion  bring. 

Now  is  the  time  for  hope; 
Now  should  the  poet's  dial  tell  the  hours 
Which  mark  the  moments  by  the  buds  that  ope, 

Or  folding  of  the  flowers. 

For  those  who  seek  her  love, 
Nature  holds  court  in  a  gay-decked  saloon, 
Where  the  rich  tapestry  is  all  inwove 

With  leaves  and  flowers  of  June. 


426  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

'-V^-\^-W^-/->-/->--N-'-^->^/-V^^-^-N^^ 

Sweet  doth  the  music  come 

From  zephyr's  harp  in  the  green  branches  stirred, 
The  lay  of  glancing  streams,  and  insect  hum, 

And  song  of  summer  bird. 

The  morning  sunlight  shines, 
Robing  in  golden  mist  the  laughing  stream ; 
Shedding  a  glory  where  the  red  rose  twines, 

And  many  dew-drops  gleam. 

The  moonbeams  pale  and  mild, 
Look  down  upon  the  buds  that  folded  sleep, 
Like  a  young  mother  watching  o'er  her  child, 

With  love  so  pure  and  deep. 

Thy  joyous  presence  lends 
To  every  heart  that  droops,  its  cheering  boon : 
Oh,  blessed  is  the  bounteous  hand  that  sends 

The  leaves  and  flowers  of  June ! 


SONG. 

Mary,  the  summer  hours  are  swiftly  flying, 
And  my  light  bark  is  out  upon  the  sea ; 

From  the  blue  West  the  sunset's  light  is  dying', 
As  sad  I  turn  to  bid  farewell  to  thee. 

Soon  shall  I  be  in  other  lands  a  rover : 

Lady !  my  short,  bright  dream  of  love  is  over. 

Hope  pointed  to  a  brilliant  star  before  me  ; 

Love  filled  my  heart  with  a  wild  burning  dream ; 
And  Poesy  had  wove  her  bright  spell  o'er  me  ; 

Thou  wert  the  star,  the  vision,  and  the  theme. 
Soon  shall  I  be  'neath  other  skies  a  rover : 
Lady !  my  short,  sweet  dream  of  love  is  over. 

The  harp  is  mute  which  woke  to  thee  its  numbers, 
And  Hope's  delusive  star  has  darkly  set ; 

Within  my  soul  the  tide  of  passion  slumbers ; 
My  task  is  now  to  wander  and  forget. 

Soon  shall  I  be  in  other  lands  a  rover : 

Lady !  my  brief  bright  dream  of  love  is  over. 


RICHARD     BACON,     JR.  427 


RICHARD    BACON,    JR. 

[Born  1814.    Died  1838.] 

RICHARD  BACON,  Jr.,  was  born  at  Northington,  (a  small  parish  of 
Farmington,)  now  Avon,  on  the  20th  of  March,  1814.  His  family 
soon  afterward  removed  to  the  town  of  Simsbury,  where  the  subject 
of  our  sketch  passed  the  chief  part  of  his  life.  After  the  customary 
attendance  upon  the  common  schools,  he  was  sent  to  the  "  Grammar 
School,"  at  Hartford,  where  he  acquired,  in  addition  to  the  usual 
English  studies,  a  knowledge  of  the  Latin  language,  and  finished  his 
course  of  academic  instruction.  After  leaving  school,  BACON  desired 
to  devote  himself  to  a  profession,  but  was  prevented  by  an  inflamma 
tion  of  the  eyes,  from  which  he  never  recovered,  and  which,  we 
believe,  tended  to  hasten  his  premature  death.  Baffled  in  his  pursuit 
of  a  profession,  he  engaged  in  other  occupations,  in  Hartford  and 
New  York,  in  the  hope  that  time  would  restore  the  use  of  his  eyes, 
and  yet  suffer  him  to  attain  the  object  of  his  wishes.  But  disap 
pointment  attended  every  effort,  and  returned  him,  after  each  attempt, 
an  invalid  to  his  father's  house.  Here  he  amused  himself  with 
literary  occupations.  He  possessed  a  fine  mind,  imbued  with  a  taste 
for  poetry,  and  evinced  a  decided  talent  for.  poetical  composition. 
By  reading  and  writing,  and  by  listening  to  the  reading  of  his  sisters, 
and  employing  their  aid  in  writing,  when  his  affliction  compelled  him 
to  relinquish  his  book  and  pen,  he  employed  with  profit  a  portion  of 
time  which  had  otherwise  been  wasted,  and  was  enabled  to  cultivate 
his  favorite  taste  and  talent. 

But  his  career  was  destined  to  an  early  close.  In  the  autumn  of 
1838,  he  left  home  for  Virginia  upon  a  business  agency.  His  health 
was  not  adequate  to  the  undertaking,  and,  care-worn  and  harassed, 
he  returned  in  a  few  weeks  to  Simsbury,  in  a  state  of  mental 
derangement.  Despite  the  kind  attentions  of  his  family,  who  hoped 
that  quiet  would  shortly  restore  him,  his  malady  increased  to  such  a 
degree  that  in  a  few  weeks  it  was  deemed  advisable  to  remove  him 
to  the  "  Insane  Retreat,"  at  Hartford.  But  his  sufferings  were  not 
long  protracted.  On  the  29th  of  December,  not  three  weeks  from 
the  day  of  his  admission  to  the  institution,  his  spirit,  in  full  possession 
of  its  former  powers,  passed  gently  and  composedly  away.  His 
remains  were  brought  back  to  Simsbury  ;  and  on  the  1st  of  January, 


428  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

1839,  amid  the  pleasant  scenes  of  his  boyhood,  attended  by  a  weeping 
throng  of  friends  and  kindred, 

"  He  made  his  cold  bed  with  the  grave  of  the  year  ! " 

The  poetical  writings  of  Mr.  BACON  are  few.  A  part  only  of  these 
were  published  by  him,  and  always  anonymously.  A  selection  from 
them,  accompanied  by  a  biographical  notice,  appeared  in  the  "  South 
ern  Literary  Messenger,"  for  November,  1841.  They  are  charac 
terized  by  a  lively  fancy  and  a  graceful  versification,  and  possess  a 
yet  stronger  interest  from  the  fact  that  they  are  now  the  sole 
remembrancers  of  one  whose  only  record  is  with 

"  Those,  the  young  and  brave,  who  cherished 

Noble  longings  for  the  strife, 
By  the  road-side  fell  and  perished, 

Weary  with  the  march  of  life  ! " 


THE    WINDS. 

Waves  of  an  Ocean  viewless  yet  sublime ! 

Which  finds  no  strand  save  starry  isles  ye  lave ! 
In  your  cool  waters  bathed  the  infant  Time — 

Your  chainless  surge  shall  roll  above  his  grave ! 
For  of  your  birth  we  ask  the  Sacred  Page  ; 

It  lends  no  answer  to  our  questing  tone  : 
Chaos'  black  realms  ye  deluged  in  your  rage, 

Loosed  from  the  Hand  outstretched  from  HEAVEN'S  high 
throne ! 

"  GOD  said  let  there  be  light !  "     With  sunny  glance 

The  young  waves  wooed  you  as  ye  passed  along ; 
Stretched  forth  their  hands  to  join  you  in  the  dance, 

To  joyous  music  from  the  starry  throng ! 
Oh,  blessed  hours !     Through  Eden's  blissful  grove, 

In  gentlest  zephyrs,  'mong  the  flowers  ye  flew, 
Stirred  EVE'S  long  tresses  as  she  sang  of  love, 

And  brushed  her  bosom  of  the  pearly  dew. 

The  Sun  has  laws :  The  Ocean's  restless  tide 

In  dread  obedience  only  dares  to  roll : 
No  power  is  swayed  to  bound  your  restless  pride  ; 

Ye  soar  on  high,  fit  emblem  of  the  soul. 
Down  charnel  depths  where  fated  stars  have  gone, 

Hurled  from  their  place  in  heaven,  ye  grope  your  way :      ) 


RICHARD     BACON,     JR.  429 

Trample  in  dust  the  Pleiad's  skeleton, 
And  hold  wild  revel  on  the  rotting  clay. 

Kissing  the  tear-drops  from  the  blushing  Spring. 

In  gentle  dalliance  joyous  on  ye  linger, 
Pluming  your  pinions  from  the  trembling  string, 

Yielding  rich  music  'neath  the  minstrel's  finger ! 
Oh !  I  have  thought,  as  on  my  ear  ye  crept, 

Soothing  with  whispered  tale  the  drooping  flowers, 
That  dreaming  Nature  murmured,  as  she  slept, 

Some  cherished  memory  of  her  Childhood's  hours  ! 

Pressing  the  lip  to  silence,  soft  ye  tread, 

When  Love  attendant  opes  the  lattice  wide ; 
Bathe  the  hot  temples  of  the  sick  man's  head, 

And  woo  sweet  Slumber  to  the  sufferer's  side ! 
Kind  ministers !  ye  cool  the  cheek  of  Care, 

The  old  man's  brow,  the  maniac's  tortured  brain ; 
Ye  pass  the  prison  grate,  and  wan  Despair 

Smiles  at  your  touch,  forgetful  of  his  chain ! 

How  changed !  the  scarf  of  empire  on  your  breast, 

The  thunder  fettered  to  your  cloudy  car : 
Ye  rouse  to  fury  Ocean  from  his  rest, 

And  hurl  the  oak  with  hideous  howl  afar ! 
Dread  ministers  !  for  now  your  work  is  death  ! 

The  crash  of  the  proud  ship  to  ruin  driven — 
The  shriek,  the  groan,  the  prayer,  the  gurgling  breath, 

Are  in  your  keeping — bear  them  all  to  heaven ! 


THE  LAST  WOMAN. 
Vain  thoughts  will  cling  to  latest  breath, 

A  truth  the  wise  attest ; 
"  A  ruling  passion,  strong  in  death," 

Holds  empire  in  the  breast. 

"  I  saw  a  vision  in  my  sleep," 

Thus  runs  TOM  CAMPBELL'S  rhyme, 

"  Which  gave  my  spirit  strength  to  sweep 
Adown  the  gulph  of  Time." 


430  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

_X-S_X->^^-^'>tay-'^-^-N^'-N_X'-N_^^ 

My  spirit  too  hath  swept  in  flight 
The  gulf  Time's  sentries  guard ; 

A  maid  thou  saw'st  not  met  my  sight — 
Thy  pardon,  deathless  bard  ! 

The  glory  of  the  Sun  was  fled, 

All  Nature  shrunk  aghast ; 
And  midst  whole  nations  of  the  dead, 

The  last  man  breathed  his  last ! 

That  maiden  stood,  the  last  to  die. 

With  pride  upon  her  lip  : 
And  rouge,  that  hid  the  tutored  sigh, 

Was  there  in  fellowship. 

A  treasured  volume,  open  there, 

Revealed  of  things  to  come — 
How  low  a  bosom  maids  could  wear 

For  "  evening  dress  at  home." 

Her  dearest  treasures  round  her  strewn ; 

A  whalebone  vesture  here  ; 
Pearls,  plumes,  puffs,  patches,  things  unknown ; 

Lo  !  there  a  broad  cashmere. 

The  last  of  lap-dogs,  hushed  in  death, 

On  gauzy  night-gowns  lay  ; 
Cosmetic  powders  flung  their  breath 

From  jars  in  long  array. 

Vases  of  odor,  curling  tongs — 

But  vain  the  whole  to  tell : 
Such  store  to  Moslem's  heaven  belongs, 

Such  things  the  Jew-men  sell. 

An  arsenal  sure,  well  stored  with  charms, 

For  heart-siege  or  blockade  ; 
That  lone  one  stood  in  rnuslin  charms, 

With  flounce  de  fleurs  arrayed. 

Upon  a  mirror's  silver  face 

She  shot  an  arrowy  glance, 
Restored  a  ringlet  to  its  place, 

Then  eyed  pale  Sol  askance. 


RICHARD     BACON,     JR.  431 

"  Ha  !  Sun,  for  ever  Beauty's  dread" — 

She  shook  her  jewelled  hand — 
"  Ha !  now  thy  fearful  power  is  fled, 

See,  all  unveiled  I  stand ! 

"  The  haughty  of  the  earth  have  bowed  ; 

Ay,  kings  have  bent  their  knee, 
And  all  in  awe  the  smitten  crowd 

Have  poured  their  praise  to  me. 

"  But  I  have  wept  for  wounded  pride 

As  on  my  shame  I  thought ; 
And  vainly  strove  with  paste  to  hide 

The  mischief  thou  hast  wrought ! 

"  Discrowned  king !  no  more  I  flee 

With  trembling  from  thy  frown  : 
Strange  that  a  power  should  ever  be 

To  change  the  lily  brown ! 

"  My  noblest  conquest  now  is  won  ; 

Would  that  the  dead  could  see  ! 
Like  dying  lover,  lo  !  the  Sun 

Gives  his  last  look  to  me ! 

"  '  Go,  tell  the  night  that  robs  thy  face' 

Of  charms  can  nought  restore, 
'  Thou  saw'st  the  last  of  Fashion's  race' — 

Go,  tell  the  dress  she  wore ! " 


THE  CAPTIVE  FLOWER. 

The  following  lines  were  intended  for  the  Album  of  a  lady,  who,  forgetful 
that  light  is  necessary  to  vegetable  being,  incarcerated  her  exotics,  during  the 
Winter,  in  a  cellar  where  "  all  was  black."    They  were  designed  to  form  one 
of  a  series  which  the  author  was  about  to  publish  under  the  title  of  "  The  Mad-  { 
house  Papers." 

I  had  a  dream  :  and  yet,  methought, 

It  was  not  all  a  dream : 
Mid  darkness  brooding  wide  I  sought, 

But  found  no  cheering  beam. 


432  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

At  first  there  was  one  flickering  ray 
Which  shot  athwart  the  gloom  ; 

Like  ghastly  smile  on  rotting  clay, 
Within  the  cold,  damp  tomb. 

Long  hours  I  strove,  with  painful  gasp, 
To  catch  one  breath  of  light ; 

But  at  my  throat  a  demon's  grasp 
Seemed  laid  with  deadly  might. 

That  glimmer  fled ;  I  cursed  my  birth ; 

I  cursed  the  sun  that  gave  ; 
For  darkness  pressed  like  trodden  earth 

Upon  a  live  man's  grave. 

Cold  on  my  limbs,  as  on  the  dead, 
A  clammy  mould  there  came  ; 

Foul,  slimy  worms  crawled  there  and  fed ; 
They  gnawed  my  wasting  frame. 

A  fire-fly  once  came  flitting  by ; 

A  moment — it  was  gone  : 
I  saw  (and  prayed  that  I  might  die,) 

A  sister's  skeleton. 

That  was  the  last !  like  guilty  men, 

To  black  perdition  hurled, 
No  ray  of  hope  was  left  me  then, 

For  darkness  was  the  world ! 


TRUST  IN  HEAVEN. 

Gladness  within  a  cottage-home  ! 

Gladness  upon  the  breezy  main  ! 
Yon  gallant  bark,  that  rides  the  foam, 

Is  near  her  native  port  again. 

There's  one  for  days  hath  watched  the  gale, 
From  earliest  morn  to  latest  even ; 

Her  eye  first  caught  yon  snowy  sail, 
A  speck  upon  the  far-off  heaven. 


RICHARD     BACON,     JR,  433 

s_^^~>^-^-x_^-^^->^-x^-^/->^~^-^^ 

And  now  her  many  fears  are  o'er ; 

Thou  wouldst  not  blame  her  frantic  joy ! 
Her  bosom's  treasure  comes  once  more  : 

Thy  father  comes,  thou  cherub-boy ! 

But  speed  thee,  husband,  speed  thy  bark, 

Bethink  thee  of  the  setting  sun  ; 
And  see  the  clouds  are  gathering  dark ; 

Now  speed  thee  ere  the  day  is  done. 


Fierce  lightnings  flash  athwart  the  sky ; 

The  tempest  in  its  fearful  wrath, 
Lifting  the  billows  mountain-high, 

Is  out  upon  the  seaman's  path. 

Now  HEAVEN  be  with  that  plunging  bark ! 

Almighty  power  alone  can  keep  ; 
Hark  to  the  rolling  thunder !  hark ! 

Oh,  Mercy !  still  the  raging  deep  ! 

"  Oh,  GOD  !  oh,  GOD  !  this  awful  night !  " 
And  she  who  spoke  was  ghastly  pale — 

"  Oh,  hush  thee,  boy  ! — Can  human  might — 
At  hour  like  this,  can  aught  avail  ? 

"Yes,  He  who  hears  a  raven  cry, 

The  raging  of  the  storm  can  stay ; 
Our  GOD  !  our  GOD  !  to  thee  on  hi<rh  ; 

O  7 

Kneel  down,  my  child,  kneel  down  and  pray. 

Oh,  hear  us,  Father,  from  above ! 

He  sure  will  hear  thy  sinless  prayer — 
Have  mercy,  HEAVEN,  on  him  we  love ! 

Oh,  grant  him  thine  almighty  care  !  " 

******** 

A  fearful  crash  went  up  to  heaven  ; 

That  fated  bark  was  seen  no  more  ; 
One  splintered  mast  to  shore  was  driven, 

Which  one  alone  to  safety  bore. 


434  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Eternal  Truth  himself  hath  spoken !  , 
Then,  mortal,  hold  !  nor  rashly  dare 

To  think  His  promise  can  be  broken ! 
Our  Heavenly  Father  heareth  prayer ! 


THE  YOUNG  MOTHER. 
Mark  yonder  scene  :  a  cherub  boy, 

With  lisping  shout  and  frolic  glee, 
Which  well  betoken  Childhood's  joy, 

Is  climbing  to  his  mother's  knee. 

And  radiant  is  that  mother's  face 

With  all  the  charms  which  beauty  lends ; 

And  hers  the  form  of  seraph  grace, 

Which  o'er  the  sculptor's  slumber  bends. 

And  smiles  are  o'er  her  beauty  stealing, 
Irradiate  with  the  light  of  thought ; 

Unuttered  tones,  yet  well  revealing 

The  love  with  which  her  heart  is  fraught. 

The  roguish  boy  !  his  sportive  hands 
Have  torn  the  roses  from  her  hair, 

And  loosed  her  tresses  from  their  bands 
Upon  a  bosom  snowy  fair. 

And  she  has  only  pressed  a  kiss 
Of  burning  fervor  on  his  brow, 

As  if  she  felt  too  much  of  bliss 
To  give  one  word  of  chiding  now. 

Oh,  if  thine  heart  be  weighed  with  sadness, 
Which  makes  the  spirit  pine  to  go, 

Then  gaze  upon  this  scene  of  gladness, 
And  learn  that  there  is  bliss  below. 


JAMES      DIXON 


435 


JAMES    DIXON. 

[Born  18]  4.] 

JAMES  DIXON  is  a  son  of  the  late  Judge  WILLIAM  DIXON,  of 
Enfield,  where  he  was  born  on  the  5th  of  August,  1814.  He 
pursued  his  preparatory  studies  at  the  "  High  School,"  of  Ellington, 
and  at  sixteen  years  of  age  entered  Williams  College,  where  he 
was  graduated  in  1834.  After  leaving  college,  he  read  law  in  the 
office  of  his  father,  at  Enfield,  and,  after  being  admitted  to  the  bar, 
commenced  the  practice  of  his  profession  in  his  native  town, 
which,  for  two  years,  he  represented  in  the  state  Legislature.  Sub 
sequently  he  removed  to  the  city  of  Hartford,  where  he  still  resides. 
On  the  1st  of  October,  1840,  Mr.  DIXON  was  married  to  ELIZABETH 
L.  COGSWELL,  daughter  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  JONATHAN  COGSWELL, 
Professor  in  the  Theological  Institute  of  East  Windsor,  and  shortly 
afterward  left  the  country,  with  his  bride,  for  a  European  tour. 
He  visited  England,  France,  Germany,  Switzerland,  and  Italy,  and 
returned  to  America  early  in  the  following  summer. 

Mr.  DIXON  has  been  a  correspondent  of  the  periodical  press,  and 
published  many  of  his  poems  in  the  "New  England  Magazine," 
formerly  printed  at  Boston.  Subsequently  he  wrote  for  the  "  Con 
necticut  Courant,"  of  Hartford,  in  which  appeared  many  of  his  best 
effusions.  His  articles  display  true  poetical  powers,  and  his  Sonnets, 
in  particular,  are  characterized  by  a  chasteness  of  thought  and  style 
which  entitle  them  to  a  high  place  amongst  the  poems  of  their  order. 


THE   FOUNTAIN    OF   YOUTH. 

"  A  tradition  prevailed  among  the  natives  of  Puerto  Rico,  that  in  the  Island 
ofBimini,  one  of  the  Lucayos,  there  was  a  fountain,  of  such  wonderful  virtue, 
as  to  renew  the  youth,  and  recall  the  vigor,  of  every  one  who  bathed  in  its  salu 
tary  waters.  In  hopes  of  finding  this  grand  restorative,  PONCE  DE  LEON  and 
his  followers  ranged  through  the  islands,  searching,  with  fruitless  solicitude  and 
labor,  for  this  wonderful  fountain.  "  ROBERTSON'S  AMERICA. 

Oh !  where  is  that  fountain  of  Youth  ! 

i'o  the  far  green  land,  where  its  waters  flow, 
Ere  our  last  hopes  fade  in  the  light  of  truth, 

With  a  fainting  heart  we  go. 
We  have  toiled  for  the  mines  of  yellow  gold 
Till  our  eyes  are  dim  and  our  blood  is  cold. 


436  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

We  have  gained  the  glittering  prize  we  sought, 
But  our  wealth  at  the  price  of  life  is  bought ; 
The  light  of  our  youth,  like  a  dream,  is  past, 
And  the  shadow  of  death  is  over  us  cast ; 
In  our  hearts  the  magic  of  Hope  has  died, 
And  what  that  can  cheer  us  is  left  beside.? 
The  gold  we  have  heaped  can  ne'er  restore 
The  wealth  of  the  soul,  that  richer  ore  ; 
And  the  light  of  youth,  that  has  ceased  to  burn, 
To  our  cheerless  age,  may  not  return. 

Oh,  where  is  that  fountain  of  Youth ! 

When  our  spirits  were  flushed  with  the  glow  of  health, 
From  our  Childhood's  home  we  were  urged  away 

By  the  sordid  lust  of  wealth. 
We  came  from  the  castled  hills  of  Spain, 

From  tented  field  and  lady's  bower, 
In  a  slender  bark  o'er  the  heaving  main, 

To  the  land  of  sun  and  shower : 
We  came,  and  the  sparkling  rivers  rolled, 
In  all  their  course,  o'er  a  bed  of  gold ; 
And  the  earth  gave  up  a  richer  spoil, 
Than  the  wealth  of  kings,  to  our  ceaseless  toil ; 
But  oh,  for  a  single  year,  to  recall 
The  flush  of  youth,  we  would  give  it  all. 


They  left  their  treasures  of  gold,  and  sought 

For  that  fountain  of  life,  whose  Waters  gave 
The  freshness  of  youth,  to  him  who  brought 

His  trembling  limbs  to  its  healing  wave. 
They  roamed  o'er  mountain  and  desert  plain, 

For  many  a  weary  day,  in  vain, 
Wherever  a  foaming  stream  might  rush 

O'er  rock,  or  green  hill-side, 
Or  hidden  fountain  gently  gush, 

Or  noiseless  river  glide. 
'T  was  vain !  for  the  blessed  Fount  of  Life, 

Whose  waters  to  men  are  given, 
Flows  not  in  this  world  of  sin  and  strife, 

But  only  is  found  in  heaven  ! 


JAMES     DIXON. 

And  thus,  in  the  brightness  of  youth,  we  seek 

The  thronging  woes  of  later  years, 
Till  care  has  blanched  the  blooming  cheek, 

And  dimmed  the  eye  with  tears  : 
We  dream  not  that  the  cloudless  sun 

That  made  our  youthful  pathway  bright, 
When  Hope's  most  brilliant  prize  is  won, 

Will  lose  its  morning  light. 
We  dream  not  that  the  power  and  wealth 

For  which  we  give  our  life, 
Will  not  repay  the  wasted  health. 
The  bitterness,  the  strife, 

The  agony,  with  which  we  earn 

The  splendors  that  the  soul  must  spurn, 

In  that  inevitable  day, 

When  glory's  hues  shall  fade  away, 

And  Gold's  omnipotence  shall  be 

A  torturing,  maddening  mockery. 

When  the  ebbing  pulse  and  the  gasping  breath^  •' 
Are  weak  and  faint  in  the  hour  of  death, 

Oh !  then  could  a  fountain  of  Youth 
In  the  desert  of  life  break  forth, 
Which  could  bring  us  back  to  that  blessed  hour, 
When  the  gilded  visions  of  Hope  had  power 

To  cheer  the  gloom  of  this  dreary  earth, 
How  would  we  gladly,  gladly  fling 

Our  wealth  away,  in  that  hour  of  pain, 
For  a  sight  of  that  celestial  spring, 

Whose  waters  might  make  us  young  again ! 


437 


THE  INDIAN   SUMMER. 

When  the  Summer  breezes  have  died  away, 

And  the  Autumn  winds  are  drear, 
And  the  forests  have  changed  their  green  array, 

For  the  hues  of  the  dying  year ; 
There  comes  a  season,  brief  and  bright, 

When  the  zephyrs  breathe  with  a  gentler  swell, 


438  POETS      OF     CONNECTICUT. 

And  the  sunshine  plays  with  a  softer  light, 
Like  the  Summer's  last  farewell. 

The  brilliant  dyes  of  the  Autumn  woods 

Have  gladdened  the  forest  bowers, 
And  decked  their  pathless  solitudes, 

Like  a  blooming  waste  of  flowers  ; 
In  the  hidden  depths  no  sound  is  heard, 

Save  a  low  and  murmuring  wail, 
As  the  rustling  leaves  are  gently  stirred 

By  the  breath  of  the  dying  gale. 

The  hazy  clouds,  in  the  mellow  light, 
Float  with  the  breezes  by,     . 

Where  the  far-off  mountain's  misty  height 
Seems  mingling  with  the  sky  ; 

And  the  dancing  streams  rejoice  again 
In  the  glow  of  the  golden  sun  ; 

And  the  flocks  are  gkd  in  the  grassy  plain 
the  sparklin'g  waters-run. 


'T  is  a  season  of  deep  and  quiet  thought, 

And  it  brings  a  calm  to  the  breast  ; 
And  the  broken  heart,  and  the  mind  o'erwrought, 

May  find,  in  ils  stillness,  rest  ; 
For  the  gentle  voice  of  the  dying  year, 

From  forest,  and  sunny  plain, 
Is  sweet  as  it  falls  on  the  mourner's  ear, 

And  his  spirit  forgets  its  pain. 

Yet  over  all  is  a  mantling  gloom, 

That  saddens  the  gazer's  heart  ; 
For  soon  shall  the  Autumn's  varied  bloom 

From  the  forest  trees  depart  : 
The  bright  leaves  whirl  in  the  eddying  air, 

Their  beautiful  tints  are  fading  fast, 
And  the  mountain  tops  will  soon  be  bare, 

And  the  Indian  Summer  past. 


JAMES     DIXON.  439 

SONNET  TO  MRS.   SIGOURNEY, 

With  a  "  Forget-me-not "  from  the  grave  of  KEATS,  on  whose  tomb-stone  ar 
inscribed  these  words : 

"  Here  lies  one  whose  name  was  writ  in  water." 

Wandering  in  Rome,  for  thee  a  gift  I  sought : 

Around  me  were  the  wonders  of  the  Past; 

And  modern  art,  on  every  side,  had  cast 
Her  gems  of  richest  beauty.     Yet  methought 

These  were  scarce  worthy  thee.     At  length  I  stood, 
One  Sabbath  eve,  beside  the  grave  of  KEATS  ; 
The  turf  was  bright  with  flowers,  that  gave  their  sweet 

To  the  soft  night  air,  as  in  mournful  mo&d : 
Sad  thoughts  came  o'er  me,  and  I  could  have  wept 

That  all  the  hopes  that  in  the  Poet's  heart, 
As  in  a  Sanctuary,  had  been  kept, 

Could  fade  so  soon,  and  perish,  and  depart ; 
I  plucked  this  flower   for   thee,   the    Muses'   happies 

daughter, 

And  joyed  to  think  thy  name  should  ne'er  be  "writ  in 
water. 


MOONLIGHTIN  JUNE. 

Thou  hast  a  gentle  ministry,  oh,  Moon ! 
.  Riding  in  solemn  silence  through  the  sky, 

And  gazing  from  thy  trackless  path  oh  high 
Upon  the  beauty  of  the  leafy  June  : 
On  such  a  lovely  night,  I  ween,  as  this, 
ENDYMION  felt  thy  pale  lips'  dewy  kiss  ;'• 
For  far  around  on  every  plain  and  hill, 

In  the  soft  gleaming  of  the  silver  ray, 
Flower,  tree,  and  forest,  breathless  now  and  still, 

Rest  from  the  burning  brightness  of  the  day ; 
Silence  is  over  all.     Yon  murmuring  rill 

Alone  leaps  gladly  on  its  tireless  way  : 
In  thy  soft  rays  how  beautiful  is  night ! 
Like  Man's  cloud-covered  path,  by  Woman's  love  made 
bright ! 


440  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

^•>*>-^'-N^-V^-^-^--v^->^%_^^->«^>^^ 

CONNECTICUT  RIVER. 
Wandering  mid  flowery  banks,  or  loud  and  hoarse, 

Foaming  o'er  rock  and  crag,  all  wild  and  free, 
From  the  deep  woods  that  hide  thy  shaded  source, 
To  where  thy  waters  mingle  with  the  sea, 
Beautiful  River !  like  a  dream  of  love 
Thy  deep  waves  glide — blue  as  the  sky  above. 
Bright  are  the  happy  homes  along  thy  shores, 

Shaded  by  drooping  elms  that  kiss  thy  wave  ; 
And  grassy  banks  that  bloom  with  gay  wild  flowers, 
Thy  calm  and  murmuring  waters  gently  lave  ; 
And  warbling  birds  with  music  sweet  as  thine, 
Sing  in  the  branches  of  the  o'er-hanging  vine — 
A. song  whose  notes  are  with  us  evermore, 
Stealing  our  hearts  away  to  wander  by  thy  shore. 


SUNSET  AFTER  A  STORM. 
Lo !  where  the  mountains  mingle  with  the  sky, 

A  breaking  light  in  all  the  glowing  west ! 
And  slowly  now  its  lustre  spreads  on  high, 

As  the  veiled  sun  sinks  calmly  to  his  rest  : 
The  broken  clouds  are  bathed  in  golden  light, 

That  mingle  sweetly  with  the  sky's  deep  blue, 
And,  as  the  twilight  fades,  from  heaven's  far  height 

The  first  bright  star  of  eve  is  shining  through  : 
The  low  wind's  voice  falls  gently  on  the  ear, 

And  with  it,  to  the  lone  and  weary  heart, 

Comes  a  deep  joy,  that,  could  it  .ne'er  depart, 
Might  make  us  sigh  to  dwell  for  ever  here  : 
It  may  not  be  !     E'en  from  such  glorious  skies, 
Oh,  who  can  tell  how  sad  a  morn  may  rise ! 


TO  A  ROBIN. 
Sweet  bird !  that,  hidden  by  the  dark  green  leaves, 

Didst  pour  thy  pleasant  song  at  break  of  day, 
Making  glad  music  'round  my  flower-wreathed  eaves, 

Why  has  thy  gentle  warbling  died  away  ? 


JAMES     DIXON..  441 

Come  not  the  zephyrs  from  the  sweet  south-west, 
As  freshly  to  thy  leaf-embosomed  nest  1 
Less  fragrant  are  the  flowers  of  Summer's  prime  1 
Or  pinest  thou  for  thy  far-off  southern  clime  ? 
Or  is  it  that  thy  noisy  young  have  flown, 

Leaving  their  green  home  in  the  o'er-shadowing  tree, 
That  thus  thou  mournest,  desolate  and  lone, 

Where  once  thy  song  burst  forth  so  loud  and  free  ? 
Alas !  that  Summer's  perfumed  airs  should  bring 
Sorrow  to  one  like  thee,  so  light  of  heart  and  wing ! 


A  RAMBLE  IN  THE  WOODS. 
The  soft,  sweet  music  of  the  forest  birds, 

The  fragrance  of  wild  flowers,  the  solemn  hush 
Of  the  dark  woods,  more  eloquent  than  words, 

The  murmuring  sound  of  Summer  streams,  that  rush 
O'er  flowers  and  bended  grass,  our  souls  beguile, 
And  tempt  our  wandering  feet  for  many  a  mile. 
Through  the  green  leaves  we  look  to  yon  deep  sky, 

Blue  as  the  Ocean,  stretching  far  around, 

And  feel  our  souls — to  earth  no  longer  bound — 
Spreading  their  eagle  wings  to  soar  on  high. 
Oh  !  in  this  perfect  stillness,  how  the  heart 
Pants  for  that  power  that  is  its  better  part ; 
And,  mid  the  teachings  of  these  trees  and  flowers, 
Sighs  o'er  the  memory  of  its  wasted  hours ! 


WILD  FLOWERS. 

Where  in  the  wanton  air  the  dark  woods  wave, 
In  every  verdant  plain,  by  rock  and  stream, 
Where  the  swift  waters  in  the  sunshine  gleam, 

Or,  sleeping  in  the  shade,  their  green  banks  lave, 

Bright  flowers  are  blooming,  and  the  Zephyr's  wing 
Is  laden  with  their  fragrance.     Come  away 

From  the  thronged  city's  busy  hum,  and  fling 
The  fetter  from  thy  soul  for  one  brief  day. 

The  winds  from  these  wild  flowers  to  thee  shall  bear 


POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Sweet  odors,  and  their  soft  and  delicate  hues 
Bathed  in  a  nightly  shower  of  Summer  dews, 
Shall  fill  thee  with  delight ;  and,  wandering  there, 
A  loftier  hope,  a  nobler,  prouder  aim, 
Amid  these  sinless  flowers,  thy  life  shall  claim.  • 


AUTUMN. 
The  skies  of  Autumn  wear  a  deeper  blue, 

The  moon  and  stars  pour  down  a  purer  light ; 

And  lo !  the  magic  frost,  in  one  brief  night, 
Hath  robed  the  forest  in  a  brighter  hue. 

Go,  where  the  mellow  sunshine  softly  plays, 
And  there,  by  plain  or  hill-side,  thou  shalt  hear 
Sounds  sweeter  far  than  charmed  thy  listening  ear, 

When  songs  of  birds  beguiled  the  Summer  days  : 
Sweet  sounds,  but  sad,  the  low  and  murmuring  wail 

Of  Autumn  winds  that  sigh  among  the  trees, 
Telling,  of  Death,  a  wild  and  mournful  tale, 

And  forcing  solemn  thought  on  minds  at  ease. 
Oh !  if  our  hearts  may  thus  be  wiser  made, 
'T  were  well  that  leaves  should  fall,  and  flowers  should  fade. 


A   SUMMER  DAY  IN  AUTUMN. 

A  warm,  bright,  sunny  day,  like  one  of  those 

That  thrilled  our  hearts  when  earth  was  gay  with  flowers, 
And  leaves  were  fresh  in  all  the  forest  bowers ! 

The  fragrant  Summer  lingers,  ere  she  goes 

From  her  green  haunts  beside  the  cooling  brook. 
With  a  sad  beauty,  like  the  last  fond  look 

Of  one  we  love.     The  melancholy  sky, 

The  fading  leaves,  the  withering  grass,  the  dim 

And  hazy  light,  have,  to  the  gazer's  eye, 

A  mournful  charm  ;  and  hark !  the  funeral  hymn 

Of  the  last  Summer  day  is  on  the  breeze, 

Mocking  the  brightness  of  the  tinted  trees ; 

And  gently  o'er  the  earth,  with  dying  swell, 

The  lingering  Zephyr  sighs  its  last  farewell ! 


JAMES     DIXON. 


THE   DEPARTED  YEAR. 


443 


Midnight !     The  Year  is  fled.     Turn  back  thine  eye 

Along  thy  path  of  life,  and  mark  the  way 
O'er  which  thy  soul,  with  many  a  tear  and  sigh, 

Hath  reached  the  dying  Year's  departing  day  ; 
Hopes  blighted,  love  estranged,  and  friends  grown  cold, 

The  gorgeous  dreams  of  youth  in  darkness  lost, 
These  are  the  wrecks  our  saddened  eyes  behold 

On  life's  dark  sea,  all  wild  and  tempest-tossed ; 
Or  if  thy  way  were  decked  with  tree  and  flower, 

And  calm  blue  skies  were  brightly  o'er  thee  spread, 
'T  were  well  that  solemn  thought,  at  this  lone  hour, 

Should  whisper — know  thy  happiest  year  is  fled ! 
Hark  !  on  the  breeze  the  lingering  echoes  swell : 
Thy  voice  is  hushed  !  thou  dying  year,  farewell ! 


THE  NEW  YEAR. 

With  eyes  that  beam  with  joy  and  radiant  smiles, 

We  greet  the  coming  of  the  new-born  Year  : 
Our  spirits  still — forgetful  of  its  wiles, 

Undying  Hope  with  magic  light  doth  cheer. 
What  dreams  are  ours  !     The  fragrant  breath  of  Spring, 

The  flowers  of  Summer,  and  the  Autumn  skies, 
Before  this  opening  year  be  past,  shall  bring 

New  bliss  and  beauty  to  our  hearts  and  eyes ; 
Oh !  tell  us  not,  with  sorrow's  sickening  blight, 

The  phantom,  Hope,  shall  mock  our  souls  again ; 
Say  not  that,  trusting  in  its  fitful  light, 

We  dream  of  joy,  and  wake  to  bitter  pain ; 
But  render  thanks  to  HEAVEN  that  flowers  conceal, 
In  all  our  way,  the  thorns  that  time  may  yet  reveal. 


MAY. 


Month  of  my  heart !  in  beauty  and  in  bloom, 

With  blossoming  trees,  mild  sunny  skies,  and  soft 

Sweet  southern  breezes,  laden  with  perfume, 
Thy  happy  hours  steal  on,  and  wandering  oft 


444  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

With  a  full  heart,  that  sighs  in  vain  to  fling, 
Like  a  chained  bird,  the  fetter  from  its  wing, 
Beside  thy  rushing  streams,  I  seem  to  tread 
A  purer  soil  than  Tempe's  flowery  vales, 
A  sky  more  blue  bends  brightly  o'er  my  head, 

More  fresh  thy  dewy  flowers,  more  soft  thy  gales, 
More  sweet  the  music  floating  on  thy  air, 
The  purple  flush  of  morn  and  eve,  more  fair, 
Than  when  we  droop  beneath  a  Summer  sun, 
And  pant  for  these  sweet  streams  that  through  thy  valleys  run. 


MORNING. 

How  doth  the  spirit  turn,  on  such  a  morn, 
From  the  vain  turmoil  and  the  bitter  strife, 
In  which  we  waste  the  golden  hours  of  life, 

To  gentler  themes,  untinged  by  hate  or  scorn ! 

To  him  whose  heart  by  Hope  is  not  forsaken, 
Sweetly  and  gladly  comes'  the  breath  of  Spring : 

And  buried  thoughts,  that  with  its  odors  waken, 
Come  like  forgotten  dreams  on  Memory's  wing ; 

And  e'en  to  saddest  hearts,  as  on  the  ear 
Melts  the  rich  music  of  the  first  bird's  song, 

Departed  hopes,  too  bright  to  linger  here, 
Return,  "  an  undistinguishable  throng." 

Alas !  that  every  dream  our  hearts  may  cherish, 

Is  doomed,  like  Spring's  first  buds  and  flowers,  to  perish ! 


WILLIAM    THOMPSON    BACON. 


[Born  1814.] 

WILLIAM  THOMPSON  BACON  was  born  at  Woodbury,  in  Litchfield 
County,  on  the  24th  of  August,  1814.  At  the  age  of  twelve  he  was 
sent  to  the  "  Episcopal  Academy,"  at  Cheshire,  to  be  fitted  for 
college,  but,  after  two  years,  determined  on  a  mercantile  life,  and 
became  a  clerk  in  the  city  of  New  York.  After  three  years,  at  the 
age  of  seventeen,  he  established  himself  in  business  in  New  Haven. 
In  a  short  time,  however,  he  withdrew  from  his  mercantile  connec 
tion,  and  devoted  himself  to  study.  He  entered  Yale  College  in 
1833,  where  he  was  regularly  graduated  in  1837,  and  was  appointed 
by  his  class  to  deliver  the  Valedictory  Poem,  at  the  time  of  their 
leaving  the  institution.  During  the  following  autumn,  he  entered 
the  Divinity  School  of  New  Haven,  and,  after  the  usual  term  of 
study,  was  licensed  as  a  minister  in  the  Congregational  denomination. 
On  leaving  that  institution,  he  was  married  to  a  daughter  of  Professor 
Knight,  of  the  Medical  Department  of  Yale  College,  and,  in  1842, 
was  settled  over  the  Congregational  church  and  society  in  the  town 
of  Trumbull,  where  he  now  resides. 

Soon  after  leaving  college,  Mr.  BACON  published  a  volume  of 
poems  from  a  Boston  press,  which,  in  1840,  passed  into  a  third 
edition,  revised  and  enlarged.  For  the  past  three  years  he  has 
published  nothing,  but  has  devoted  a  portion  of  his  time  to  a  work  of 
some  length,  which  may  be  given  to  the  press  at  a  future  day.  His 
lighter  poems  possess  much  simplicity  and  grace.  He  has  a  fine 
perception  of  natural  beauty,  and  his  graver  productions  are  pervaded 
by  a  current  of  deeply  reflective  moral  and  religious  sentiment. 


A   MIDNIGHT    MEDITATION. 

"  Look,  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold  ; 
There  's  not  the  smallest  orb  which  thou  beholdest, 
But  in  its  motion  like  an  angel  sings, 
Still  quiring  to  the  young-eyed  cherubim."        SHAKSPEARE. 

Silence  and  Night !  it  is  the  time  for  thought ; 
And  the  lone  dreamer  sends  his  weary  eye, 
Out  from  the  casement,  up  to  the  dim  stars ; 


446 


POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 


And  deems  that  from  those  rolling  worlds  comes  to  him 

A  cheering  voice.     How  beautiful  they  are, 

Those  sparkling  fires  in  that  eternal  void ! 

They  seem  like  jewels  on  the  crown  of  Him, 

The  LORD  !  the  Crucified!     They  do  hang  there, 

Bright,  as  when  bursting  o'er  this  lower  world, 

Then  heaving  into  beauty — the  fair  lands, 

Valleys,  and  hills  ;  the  streams,  the  lakes,  the  seas, 

With  their  blue  depths  ;  the  Ocean,  with  its  waves 

Restless  for  ever ;  as  when  these  burst  forth, 

And  over  them  GOD  spread  this  canopy 

Of  grandeur  and  of  glory  !     There  they  hang, 

Emblems  of  his  great  hand  who  placed  them  there, 

And  bade  them  roll  to  one  eternal  hymn 

Of  heavenly  harmony !     Away,  awray, 

Further  and  further  on,  thought  ilies  ;  and  yet 

Reaches  them  not.     Beyond  the  wild,  blue  track 

Of  this  our  world  it  sweeps  ;  beyond  the  track 

Of  that  ringed  orb  the  heathen  deified, 

Old  Saturn  named  ;  beyond  the  path  of  him 

They  called  the  Thunderer  ;  ay  !  and  beyond 

The  track  sublime  of  our  great  burning  orb, 

Hanging  alone  in  heaven  beyond  all  these, 

Thought,  seraph-winged,  sweeps  daringly,  and  yet 

Reaches  not  the  first  trace  of  those  far  fires, 

Glowing,  yet  never  fading — myriads  burning 

In  the  blue  concave,  where  no  thought  may  pierce 

Save  the  Eternal's.     And  yet  those  bright  orbs 

Created  were,  and  in  harmonious  march 

Traverse  the  air  together.     Not  one  of  all 

Those  sparkling  points  of  scarce  distinguishable  flame 

But  hath  its  part  and  place  in  that  grand  scheme, 

Fixed  by  the  GOD  of  Heaven.    Laws,  times,  place,  motions, 

All  these  each  hath ;  and  there  they  roll  for  ever, 

Changing  and  yet  unchanged.     The  'wildered  mind 

Turns  from  the  scene  amazed,  and  asks  itself 

If  this  can  be  ! 

And  yet,  how  Fancy  dreams 
Of  those  bright  worlds  !     Tell  us,  ye  unseen  Powers, 


WILLIAM     THOMPSON     BACON. 


447 


Ye  that  do  gather  round  us  in  these  hours 

When  the  impassioned  world  lies  locked  in  sleep, 

And  the  day's  whirl  is  over,  tell  us  here, 

What  are  those  rolling  worlds  !     Are  there  hright  scenes, 

Such  as  we  dream  of  here  ?     Are  there  fair  realms, 

Robed  in  such  hues  as  this  ?     Do  wild  hills  there 

Heave  their  high  tops  to  such  a  bright,  blue  heaven 

As  this  which  spans  our  world  ?     Have  they  rocks  there, 

Ragged  and  thunder-rent,  through  whose  wild  chasms 

Leap  the  white  cataracts,  and  wreath  the  woods 

With  rainbow  coronets  ?     Spread  such  bright  vales 

There  in  the  sunlight ;  cots,  and  villages, 

Turrets,  and  towers,  and  temples — dwell  these  there, 

Glowing  with  beauty  1     Wilderness  and  wild, 

Heaving  and  rolling  their  green  tops,  and  ringing 

WTith  the  glad  notes  of  myriad-colored  birds 

Singing  of  happiness — have  they  these  there  ? 

Spread  such  bright  plains  there  to  the  admiring  eye, 

Veined  by  glad  brooks,  that  to  the  loose,  white  stones 

Tell  their  complaint  all  day  ?  waves,  spreading  sheets, 

That  mirror  the  white  clouds,  and  moon,  and  stars, 

Making  a  mimic  heaven  ?  streams,  mighty  streams  ! 

Waters,  resistless  floods  !  that,  rolling  on, 

Gather  like  seas,  and  heave  their  waves  about, 

Mocking  the  tempest  ?     Ocean  !  those  vast  tides 

Tumbling  about  the  globe  with  a  wild  roar 

From  age  to  age  ?     And  tell  us,  do  those  worlds 

Change  like  our  own  ?     Comes  there  the  merry  Spring, 

Soft  and  sweet-voiced ;  and,  in  its  hands,  the  wealth 

Of  leaves  to  deck  the  forest ;  flowers,  and  scattered 

In  the  green  vales  and  on  the  slopes,  to  fling 

Over  a  fairy  world ;  and  feathery  winds, 

And  airs,  and  smiling  sunshine  ;  birds,  and  bees, 

Filling  the  soft  savannas  with  the  sound 

Of  their  low  murmurings  ?     Have  they  the  months 

Of  the  full  Summer,  with  its  skies,  and  clouds, 

And  suns,  and  showers,  and  soothing  fragrance  sent 

Up  from  a  thousand  tubes  ?     And  Autumn,  too, 

Pensive  and  pale,  do  these  sweet  days  come  there, 


448 


POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 


Wreathing  the  wilderness  with  such  gay  bands 

Of  brightness  and  of  beauty,  till  the  earth, 

Late  fresh  and  flowering,  seems  like  some  fair  bride, 

Met,  in  the  month  of  dalliance,  with  the  frost 

Of  a  too-killing  sorrow  1     And,  sublime, 

Within  his  grasp  the  whirlwinds,  and  his  brows 

White  with  the  storm  of  ages,  and  his  breath 

Fettering  the  streams,  arid  ribbing  the  old  hills 

With  ice,  and  sleet,  and  snow  ;  and,  far  along 

The  sounding  Ocean's  side,  his  frosty  chains 

Flinging,  till  the  wild  waves  grow  mute,  or  mutter 

Only  in  their  dread  caves — old  Winter !  he — 

Have  you  him  there  ?     And  tell  us,  hath  a  GOD, 

Sentient  and  wise,  placed  there  the  abstruser  realm 

Of  thinking  and  of  feeling  ?     Have  ye  minds, 

Grasping  and  great  like  ours  ?  and  reaching  souls, 

That,  spurning  their  prison,  burst  away,  and  soar 

Up  to  a  mightier  converse,  than  the  rounds 

Of  a  dull  daily  being  ?     And  warm  hearts, 

Do  they  dwell  there  I  hearts  fondly  locked  to  hearts, 

Into  each  other's  natures  pouring  wild 

Floods  of  deep  feeling,  and  a  life  so  sweet 

Death  doth  but  make  it  sweeter  ?     Have  ye  dreamers, 

Young  hearts  !  proud  souls  !  that  catch  from  every  thing 

A  greatness,  and  a  grandeur  of  delight, 

That  common  souls  feel  not  ?  souls  that  do  dwell 

Only  in  thoughts  of  beauty,  linking  forth, 

Into  one  mystic  chain,  the  fadeless  flowers 

And  wreaths  of  immortality  ?  that  dwell 

Only  to  think  and  feel,  and  be  the  slaves 

Of  a  sad  nature  ;  and,  when  life  is  over, 

Only  to  take  the  charnel,  with  the  hope 

A  star  may  hang  above  them  for  the  eye 

Of  the  far  slumbering  ages  ? 

False,  false,  all ! 

And  vain  the  wing  of  Fancy  to  explore 
The  track  of  angels  !     Vain  thought,  to  fold  back 
This  gorgeous  canopy,  and  send  the  eye 


WILLIAM     THOMPSON     BACON.  4 

On  to  those  realms  of  glory !     Mighty  One  ! 

Thou  who  dost  look  on  all,  the  great,  the  good, 

Humbled,  or  hoping ;  pride,  or  the  poor  wretch 

Laid  on  his  mat  of  misery ;  thou  dost  watch, 

And  thou  hast  power  o'er  all !     Thou  hast  alone, 

Wrapped  in  thine  own  immensity,  the  power, 

To  paint  a  leaf,  or  roll  ten  thousand  worlds 

Around  the  universe  !     Oh,  let  the  heart, 

Pained,  and  in  sickness  here,  lay  its  poor  hope 

Low  at  thy  feet ;  and  trust  that  thou  at  last, 

When  thou  shalt  shake  these  heavens,  and  rend  away 

The  pillars  of  the  universe,  wilt  save 

This  glimmering  mind  now  here,  to  be  a  star, 

Bright,  for  some  other  world ! 


OTHER    DAYS. 

How  many  years  have  passed  away 

Since,  on  this  spot  I  stood, 
And  heard,  as  now  I  hear  them  play, 

The  voices  of  the  wood, 
Green  boughs  and  budding  leaves  among, 
Piped  low  in  one  continuous  song ! 

How  many  years  have  passed,  since  here, 

Upon  this  bald  rock's  crest, 
I  lay  and  watched  the  shadows  clear 

Upon  the  lake's  blue  breast; 
Since  here,  in  many  a  poet  dream, 
I  lay  and  heard  the  eagle  scream ! 

The  Seasons  have  led  round  the  year, 

Many  and  many  a  time  ; 
And  other  hands  have  gathered  here 

The  young  flowers  of  the  clime  ; 
The  which  I  wove,  with  thoughts  of  joy, 
Around  my  brows,  an  idle  boy. 


450  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

And  there  were  voices  too,  "  lang  syne," 

I  think  I  hear  them  yet ; 
And  eyes  that  loved  to  look  on  mine, 

I  shall  not  soon  forget ; 
And  hearts  that  felt  for  me  before ; 
Alas,  alas,  they  '11  feel  no  more. 

I  call  them  by  remembered  names, 
And  weep  when  I  have  done ; 

The  one,  the  yawning  Ocean  claims, 
The  distant  church-yard,  one  ; 

I  call — the  wood  takes  up  the  tone, 

And  only  gives  me  back  my  own. 

Still,  from  the  lake,  swell  up  these  walls, 
Fronting  the  morning's  sheen  ; 

And  still  their  storm-stained  capitals 
Preserve  their  lichens  green  ; 

And  still,  upon  the  ledge,  I  view 

The  gentian's  eye  of  stainless  blue. 

And  far  along,  in  funeral  lines, 
Sheer  to  the  higher  grounds, 

Touched  by  the  finger  of  the  winds, 
The  pines  give  out  their  sounds  ; 

And,  far  below,  the  waters  lie 

Quietly  looking  to  the  sky. 

And  still  a  vale  of  softest  green 
The  embracing  prospect  fills  ; 

And  still  the  river  winds  between 
The  parting  of  the  hills  ; 

The  sky  still  blue,  the  flowers  still  found, 

Just  bursting  from  the  moist  Spring  ground. 

So  was  it  many  years  ago, 

As  on  this  spot  I  stood, 
And  heard  the  waters  lave  below 

The  edges  of  the  wood, 
And  thought,  while  music  filled  the  air, 
The  fairies  held  their  revel  there. 


WILLIAM     THOMPSON     BACON. 

And  I  alone  am  changed  since  then ; 

Youth  has  forsaken  me  ; 
Fancy  has  thrown  aside  her  pen, 

And  truth  has  taken  me  ; 
And  in  the  world,  mid  other  things, 
They  call  me  man — oh !  how  it  stings. 

I  ask  these  scenes  to  give  me  back 
My  fresh,  glad  thoughts  again  ; 

Alas,  they  lie  along  the  track 
Which  I  have  trod  with  men ! 

The  flowers  I  gathered  here,  a  child, 

I  plucked,  it  seems,  to  deck  a  wild. 

The  golden  light  of  morn  surrounds 
These  heights  with  its  broad  glare ; 

And  here,  where  the  gray  forest  crowns 
The  precipice,  I  bare 

My  hot  brow  to  the  breeze,  and  feel 

Its  breath  of  balm  about  me  steal. 

And  here  upon  this  rock  I  lie, 

Gazing  up  into  heaven  ; 
Watching  the  swallows  of  the  sky, 

Upward  and  upward  driven; 
Or  watching  the  clouds,  that,  one  by  one, 
Quietly  melt  into  the  sun. 

Oh,  would  that  the  deep  rest,  that  fills 
This  scene,  might  leave  me  never ! 

Would  that  the  circuit  of  these  hills 
Might  shut  me  in  for  ever ! 

For  wisdom,  prize  it  as  I  may, 

I  '11  not  thus  give  my  life  away. 

Oh,  joyously  I  would  come  back, 
As  the  tired  bird  comes  home ; 

That,  wearied  with  her  high,  bright  track, 
Far  through  the  azure  dome, 

At  eve  drops  down  into  her  nest, 

To  lean  upon  one  faithful  breast ! 


451 


452  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

'^<^-^^^-*~s-^r^s-^-^-^^^^~>^^^^ 

FANNY  WILLOUGHBY. 

"A  fairy  vision 

Of  some  gay  creatures  of  the  element, 
That  in  the  colors  of  the  rainbow  live, 
And  play  i'  the  plighted  clouds."  MILTON'S  COMUS. 

I  love  thee,  FANNY  WILLOUGHBY, 

And  that 's  the  why,  ye  see, 
I  woo  thee,  FANNY  WILLOUGHBY, 

And  cannot  let  thee  be ; 
I  sing  for  thee,  I  sigh  for  thee 

And  oh !  you  may  depend  on  Jt, 
I'll  weep  for  thee,  I'll  die  for  thee, 

And  that  will  be  the  end  on 't. 

I  love  thy  form,  I  worship  it ; 

To  me  it  always  seems 
As  if  it  were  the  counterfeit 

Of  some  I  've  seen  in  dreams  ; 
It  makes  me  feel  as  if  I  had 

An  angel  by  my  side  ; 
And  then  I  think  I  am  so  bad 

You  will  not  be  my  bride. 

I  love  the  golden  locks  that  glow 

About  that  brow  of  thine  ; 
I  always  thought  them  "  so  and  so," 

But  now  they  are  divine  ; 
They  're  like  an  Alpine  torrent's  rush, 

The  finest  under  heaven  ; 
They  're  like  the  bolted  clouds,  that  flush 

The  sky  of  Summer's  even. 

I  love  thy  clear  and  hazle  eye — 

They  say  the  blue  is  fairer ; 
And  I  confess  that,  formerly, 

I  thought  the  blue  the  rarer ; 
But,  when  I  saw  thine  eye  so  clear, 

Though  perfectly  at  rest, 
I  did  kneel  down,  and  I  did  swear, 

The  hazel  was  the  best. 


WILLIAM     THOMPSON    BACON. 

I  love  thy  hand  so  pale  and  soft, 

The  which,  in  days  "  lang  syne," 
You,  innocent  as  trusting,  oft 

Would  softly  clasp  in  mine  ; 
I  thought  it  sure  was  chiselled  out 

Of  marble  by  the  geniuses, 
Like  those  the  poets  rant  about, 

The  virgins  and  the  Venuses. 

I  love  the  sounds  that  from  thy  lip 

Gush  holily  and  free, 
As  rills  that  from  their  caverns  slip, 

And  prattle  to  the  sea ; 
The  melody  for  aye  doth  steal 

To  hearts  by  sorrow  riven, 
And  then  I  think,  and  then  I  feel, 

That  music  comes  from  heaven. 


453 


Now  listen,  FANNY  WILLOUGHBY, 

And  lend  your  heart  to  pity  ; 
I'm  ruined,  FANNY  WILLOUGHBY, 

Because  you  are  so  pretty ; 
And  if  you  don 't  relent,  why  I 

Believe  you  will  me  kill ; 
For  passion  must  have  vent,  and  I 

Will  kill  myself,  I  will. 

'T  was  thus,  when  Love  had  made  me  mad 

For  FANNY  WILLOUGHBY, 
I  told  my  tale,  half  gay,  half  sad, 

To  FANNY  WILLOUGHBY  ; 
And  FANNY  looked  as  maiden  would, 

When  love  her  heart  did  burn  ; 
And  FANNY  sighed  as  maiden  should, 

And  murmured  a  return. 

So  wooed  I  FANNY  WILLOUGHBY, 

A  maiden  like  a  dove  ; 
So  won  I  FANNY  WILLOUGHBY, 

The  maiden  of  my  love  ; 


OF     CONNECTICUT. 


And  though  such  years  have  passed  since  that, 

And  she  is  in  the  sky, 
I  never,  never  can  forget 

Sweet  FANNY  WILLOUGHBY. 


ROME. 
The  Coliseum's  lonely  walls  still  tower, 

In  all  their  massy  strength,  to  greet  the  skies ; 
The  Caesars'  hundred  palaces  of  power 

In  undecayed  magnificence  still  rise  ; 
And  towers,  and  tombs,  and  temples  desolate, 
Tell  of  the  solemn  grandeur  of  her  state. 

The  winding  walks  are  there,  which,  erst,  have  rung 
With  steel-shod  foot,  and  hoof,  and  clattering  car, 

When  hosts  met  hosts,  like  waves  on  wild  waves  flung, 
And  Fury  sped  the  thunderbolt  of  war ; 

And  there,  to  greet  the  traveller,  still  rise 

The  trophies  of  a  thousand  victories. 

Each  step  records  some  tokens  of  a  day, 

Whose  pomp  and  power  we  cannot  comprehend ; 

'T  is  grandeur  in  the  grandeur  of  decay. 

Where  ruin  mars  what  man  has  scorned  to  mend ; 

And,  as  from  pile  to  pile  the  step  is  led, 

We  seem  amid  the  dwellings  of  the  dead. 

We  walk  amid  those  temples  tottering ; 

Each  foot-fall  starts  the  young  owl  from  her  rest ; 
Where  mantling  vines  round  mouldering  arches  cling, 

To  furnish  forth  the  bat  her  dusky  nest ; 
And  every  breeze  that  through  the  ruin  strays, 
Seems  like  the  ghost  of  Rome's  departed  days. 

Romans  and  Roman  matrons  wandered  here  ; 

Here  blushed  the  cheek  at  its  sweet  beauty  spoken ; 
Trembled  the  delicate  hand,  and  sparkled  clear 

The  bright  drop  in  the  eye,  at  Love's  fond  token ; 
And  children's  voices  woke  these  streets  all  day, 
And  echoed  the  light  laugh  of  maidens  gay. 


WILLIAM     THOMPSON     BACON.  455 

Tempest,  and  terror,  war,  and  flood,  and  fire, 

And  cruelty,  and  guilt,  and  avarice, 
These  have  been  here,  and  wreaked  their  vengeance  dire, 

On  pillared  fane,  and  smouldering  precipice  ; 
Yet  sits  she  still  amid  the  solemn  scene, 
Queen  of  the  hills  !  ay,  "  every  inch  "  a  Queen. 

Rome's  greatness,  and  Rome's  grandeur  may  not  be 
The  greatness  and  the  grandeur  that  we  prize ; 

Yet,  though  her  soul  was  chained,  her  mind  was  free ; 
And  power  was  there  which  men  cannot  despise ; 

She  lifted  her  proud  arm,  each  flag  was  furled, 

And,  at  her  haughty  beck,  bowed  down  the  world. 

And  with  her,  though  a  tyrant  in  her  mood, 
Was  genius,  learning,  talent  consecrate  ; 

And  though  on  land  and  sea  her  track  was  blood, 
Yet  intellectual  greatness  marked  her  state  ; 

For  while  was  heard  the  trumpet's  deafening  clang, 

The  Forum  thundered  with  the  loud  harangue. 

Yet  we  walk  forth  upon  the  breast  of  earth, 
And  dare  to  speak  and  tell  how  great  we  are ; 

Less  than  the  ancient  worthies  from  our  birth, 
We  talk  of  deeds  of  daring — thus  we  dare ; 

It  is  as  if  the  young  and  timorous  dove 

Should  mate  itself  with  the  proud  bird  of  JOVE  ! 


THE  ISLAND. 
That  Isle,  so  beautiful  to  view, 
No  poet's  fancy  ever  drew. 
It  lay  upon  the  open  sea, 

It  lay  beneath  the  stars  and  sun  ; 
A  thing,  too  beautiful  to  be  ! 

A  jewel  cast  that  sea  upon  ! 
The  winds  came  upward  to  the  beach, 

The  waves  came  rolling  up  the  sand ; 
Then  backward  with  a  gentle  reach, 

Now  fo'rward  to  the  land, 
Sparkling  and  beautiful,  tossing  there, 
Then  vanishing  into  the  air. 


456  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 


The  winds  came  upward  to  the  beach, 

The  waves  came  upward  in  a  curl, 
Then  far  along  the  shore's  slope  reach, 

There  ran  a  line  of  pearl. 
And  shells  were  there  of  every  hue, 

From  snowy  white  to  burning  gold ; 
The  jasper,  and  the  Tyrian  blue, 

The  sardonyx  and  emerald  ; 
And  o'er  them  as  the  soft  winds  crept, 
A  melody  from  each  was  swept — 
For  melody  within  each  slept, 

Harmoniously  blended ; 
And  never,  till  the  winds  gave  out, 
And  ceased  the  surf  its  tiny  shout, 

That  melody  was  ended  : 
Morn,  noon,  and  eve,  was  heard  to  be 
The  music  of  those  shells  and  sea. 
The  winds  went  upward  from  the  deep, 

The  winds  went  up  across  the  sand, 
And  never  did  the  sea  winds  sweep 

Over  a  lovelier  land. 
The  northern  seas,  the  southern  shores, 

The  eastern  and  the  western  isles, 
Had  rifled  all  their  sweets  and  stores, 

To  deck  this  lovely  place  with  smiles. 
And  mounts  were  here,  and  tipped  with  green, 

And  kindled  by  the  glowing  sun ; 
And  vales  were  here,  and  stretched  between, 

Where  waters  frolicked  in  their  fun  ; 
And  goats  were  feeding  in  the  light, 

And  birds  were  in  the  green-wood  halls  ; 
And,  echoing  o'er  each  hilly  height, 

Was  heard  the  dash  of  waterfalls. 
Oh !  all  was  beauty,  bliss,  and  sound  ; 
A  Sabbath  sweetness  reigned  around; 
All  was  delight,  for  every  thing 
Was  robed  in  loveliness  and  Spring ; 
Color  and  fragrance,  fruit  and  flower, 
Were  here  within  this  Island  Bower ! 


EBENEZER  PORTER  MASON. 


457 


EBENEZER    PORTER    MASON. 

[Born  1819.    Died  1840.] 

EBENEZER  PORTER  MASON,  son  of  the  Rev.  STEPHEN  MASON,  a 
Congregationalist  clergyman,  was  born  at  Washington,  a  retired 
village  in  Litchfield  County,  on  the  7th  of  December,  1819.  At  a 
very  early  age  he  exhibited  a  passion  for  books,  and  an  exceeding 
fondness  for  philosophical  experiments.  He  was  furnished  with 
every  opportunity  for  instruction,  and  made  rapid  improvement.  He 
entered  Yale  College  in  1835,  where  he  distinguished  himself  by  his 
devotion  to  mathematics,  and  his  rapid  progress  in  practical  astrono 
my.  He  was  graduated  in  1839,  and  for  a  time  applied  himself 
assiduously  to  astronomical  studies  and  writings.  His  health  fail 
ing,  in  August,  1840,  he  joined  the  Maine  Boundary  Expedition,  but 
returned  to  New  York  in  the  following  October,  having  derived  but 
little  benefit  from  his  scientific  excursion.  Early  in  December,  he 
visited  a  kinsman  at  Richmond,  in  Virginia,  on  a  pilgrimage  in 
search  of  health ;  but  he  survived  only  a  few  days  after  reaching  the 
residence  of  his  friend,  and  died  on  the  26th  of  December,  1840. 

The  "  Life  and  Writings  "  of  young  MASON  were  published  by 
Professor  OLMSTED,  at  New  York,  in  1842.  Mr.  MASON  blended, 
in  a  rare  union,  the  powers  of  scientific  inquiry  with  poetic  taste  and 
fancy.  The  vigor  of  his  mind  has  imparted  itself  to  the  few  poetic 
compositions  which  are  included  amongst  his  writings.  They  possess 
a  more  scholar-like  completeness  of  thought  than  is  often  found  in 
the  youthful  efforts  of  poetic  genius. 


NIGHT  MUSINGS. 

The  fevered  glow  of  parting  day, 

That  flushed  so  late  the  brow  of  heaven, 
To  marble  paleness  fades  away 

Before  the  cool  of  youngest  even ; 
'T  was  flushed  like  mortal  brow,  when  roll 
The  storms  of  passion  o'er  the  soul : 
'T  is  faded,  like  that  brow  when  thought 
From  eve  a  kindred  calm  hath  caught. 


39 


458  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Swift  over  twilight's  lovely  face, 
Those  changing  hues  each  other  chase  ; 
Trembles  from  snowy  depths  afar 
The  dawning  of  her  earliest  star, 
And  glows  the  crescent's  subtle  horn, 
From  the  expiring  sunset  born — 
A  gem  upon  her  mantle  worn, 

And  binding  night  to  day, 
Where  evening  hangs  on  day's  retreat, 
Where  bounds  of  light  and  darkness  meet, 
And  each  on  heaven's  azure  sheet 

In  the  other  fades  away. 

Wan  Night  upon  her  vesture's  waist, 
With  pen  of  fire  that  bow  hath  traced  ;* 
But  coloring  of  darker  beams, 
As  of  the  sunless  hue  of  dreams, 
Hath  fully  bodied  forth  that  sphere 

The  brighter  crescent  but  begun, 
And  bound  beside  the  bright  form  there 

A  quenched  and  rayless  one, 
The  living  with  the  dead, 

The  present  with  the  past ; 
The  spirit's  vital  essence  wed 

To  the  cold  clay  in  which  't  is  cast. 
Well  were  it  did  the  spirit's  light, 
Like  that  orb  struggling  from  its  night, 
As  surely  on  its  destined  way, 
Wax  brighter  to  the  perfect  day. 

Deeper  hath  swelled  the  evening  shade, 
I  And  mingled  wooded  hill  and  glade  ; 

[  And  raven-pinioned  Night, 

! '  In  sable  mantle  dight, 

Arousing  from  her  orient  deep, 
1  Rides  lowering  up  the  darkened  steep, 

While  heaven's  numerous  pageantry 
Light  onward  her  triumphal  course, 

!       *  On  the  "  Starlight  Bow,"  see  Professor  MORSE,  in  the  American  Journal  of 
J   Science  for  1838,  p.  389. 


EBENEZER     PORTER     MASON.  459 

Those  watch-fires  fed  unceasingly 

From  light's  own  holy  source  ; 
Down,  down  the  welkin's  slanted  side, 

Her  robe  of  shade  descends  ; 
On  the  last  ebb  of  even-tide, 

To  earth  it  slowly  bends. 

Beneath  her  solemn  temple  roof, 

Night  walks  in  lone  supremacy, 
And  darkness  weaves  his  braided  woof, 

To  deck  yon  boundless  canopy. 
Ye  stars  !  that  strew  his  funeral  veil, 

Ye  are  no  fleeting,  changeful  race ; 
What  are  ye  then  ?  beyond  the  pale 

Of  Death's  cold  reign  and  stern  embrace  ? 
Are  ye  immortal  ?  do  ye  share 

The  deathless  nature  of  the  soul  ? 
Though  not  the  past,  the  future  heir 

Of  life  beyond  Time's  vain  control? 
If  not  unfading,  yet  are  ye 
Most  fadeless  of  the  things  that  be, 
And  nearest  immortality. 

Brightly  ye  burn  on  heaven's  brow ; 
Ye  shot  as  bright  a  ray  as  now, 
When  mirrored  on  the  unruffled  wave 
That  whelmed  earth's  millions  to  one  grave ; 
And  ye  shall  yet  burn  still  the  same, 
When  blends  with  yours  that  mighty  flame 
That  shall  whelm  earth  in  darker  gloom 
Than  cloud  o'er  Eden's  primal  bloom. 
From  storm,  and  cloud,  and  meteor's  glare, 

And  the  azure  curtained  day, 
That  fills  with  light  the  dazzling  air 

Soon  as  they  pass  in  haste  away, 
Ye  dart  again  your  changeless  ray ; 
Shall  ye  not  thus  for  ever  beam  ? 
Must  ye  too  pass,  as  doth  a  dream  1 
Can  ye  fear  change,  or  death,  or  blight  ? 
Isles  of  the  blessed,  on  your  sea  of  might  ? 


460  POETS    OF    CONNECTICUT. 

We  may  not  pierce  with  curious  eye 

The  mist  that  shrouds  your  destiny, 

Your  present  might,  your  home,  the  abyss ; 

Oh,  't  is  enough  to  gaze  on  this ! 

To  feel  that  in  the  eye's  embrace 

Lies  an  infinity  of  space  ; 

That  vision  hath  no  term,  no  bound, 

To  hem  its  endless  circle  round ; 

But  that  with  which  it  may  converse 

Is  boundless  as  the  universe. 

It  is  a  joy  as  wild  and  deep 

As  ever  thrilled  in  pulse  and  eye, 
In  the  lone  hour  of  mortal  sleep, 

To  look  upon  your  majesty ; 
With  you  your  solemn  vigils  keep, 

As  your  vast  depths  before  me  lie. 
And  when  the  star-mailed  giant* 

A  blaze  of  glory  sheds, 
And,  high  in  heaven,  defiant, 

His  lion-mantle  spreads, 
To  watch  his  mighty  form  uprear, 

As,  spurning  earth  with  foot  of  air, 
He  mounts  upon  the  whirling  sphere, 

And  walks  in  solemn  silence  there ; 
To  watch  him  in  his  slow  decline, 

Until,  to  Ocean's  hall  restored, 
He  bathe  him  in  the  welcome  brine, 

And  the  wave  sheathe  his  burning  sword. 


TO  A  ROSEBUD, 
Dying  in  the  vase  whither  it  had  been  transplanted. 

Why  droops  so  mournfully  thy  head,  pale  flower  ? 

Why  hangs  thy  green  tress  on  the  water's  brink  ? 
Not  now  thou  bendest  with  the  grateful  shower, 

Whose  drops  once  wooed  thy  thirsty  leaves  to  drink 
Life  from  their  coolness.     No !  no  freshness  now 
Blooms  on  thy  fading  leaf,  and  bud  of  snow. 

*  Orion. 


EBENEZER  PORTER  MASON.         461 

^-*-^w'~x^>B/^^ 

'T  is  not  the  dews  of  night  are  heavy  on  thee, 
Starring  thy  cup  with  rainbow  loveliness ; 

Nor  yet  the  bee,  so  oft  that  hung  upon  thee, 
Till  bent  thy  blossom  to  his  gentle  kiss  ; 

No  !  thou  art  stricken  :  ne'er  to  rise  anew, 

To  glad  the  bee,  or  drink  the  morning  dew. 

A  rude  hand  plucked  thee  from  thy  native  bower ; 

No  longer  thou  by  thy  loved  breeze  art  fanned ; 
And  thou  art  pining  for  thy  home,  sweet  flower, 

As  pines  a  captive  for  his  distant  land : 
And  therefore  droops  thy  head  so  mournfully ; 
Thy  life  was  broken  with  thy  parent  tree. 

And  was  it  woman's  hand  that  did  thee  wrong  ? 

Was  it  frail  woman  that  so  rudely  broke 
The  frailer  thing,  whose  tenderness  had  wrung 

From  sterner  man  remittance  of  the  stroke  1 
Tell  not  the  tale,  ye  flowers,  that  could  not  save 
Your  hapless  sister  from  her  cruel  grave. 


ON  REVISITING  THE   SCENES  OF  CHILDHOOD. 
At  last  I  tread  once  more  the  wonted  haunts 

Where  woke  my  infancy  to  life  and  light ; 
Each  everlasting  hill  its  outline  slants, 

As  recollection  imaged  to  my  sight, 
And  time  flows  back ;  and  my  stirred  bosom  pants 

Once  more  with  early  boyhood  to  unite, 
And  feel  its  careless  breath  go  lightly  forth, 
And  hear  the  echoes  mock  its  sounds  of  mirth. 

On  each  remembered  spot  the  dizzy  flight 
Of  by-gone  years  is  ruthlessly  engraven ; 

And  this  is  life  !  still  onward,  in  despite 

Of  human  power — perchance  of  that  of  heaven ; 

Like  a  raised  wave  before  the  tempest's  might, 
It  may  not  breast  the  power  by  which  't  is  driven ; 

But  still  borne  surely  to  the  fatal  shore, 

To  break,  and  fall,  and  perish  in  its  roar. 


462  POETS    OF    CONNECTICUT. 

Is  life  no  more  1     Oh !  never  yet  where  dwelt 
The  image  of  the  ALMIGHTY,  hath  the  breath 

Of  Time's  defied  and  fruitless  power  been  felt : 
All  else  shall  quail  before  the  blast  of  death ; 

The  sun  shall  be  as  blood ;  the  earth  shall  melt ; 
But  the  immortal  soul  shall  tread  beneath 

Her  disembodied  might  the  chain  of  Time, 

That  dure  not  so  near  GOD'S  own  glory  climb. 


THE  SUMMER  EVENING. 
Entranced  by  those  harmonious  sounds  upborne — 

Light  murmurs  stealing  on  the  cool  night-breeze — 
In  rapt  suspense  I  hear  the  mellow  horn ; 
Zephyrs,  the  while,  their  music  breathe  till  morn 

And  sounds  of  festive  mirth  float  o'er  the  trees. 

Just  rising  is  the  Moon,  whose  form  we  hail 

Enrobed  in  light  majestic,  beauteous,  pure  : 
Now  she  o'ertops  the  trees ;  her  beams  so  pale 
Kindle  with  silver  light  the  lovely  vale, 

So  late  in  darkness  and  in  gloom  obscure. 

To  such  a  scene  our  minds  will  oft  return. 

Oft,  when  bleak  Winter  spreads  his  icy  chain, 
Binding  with  ruthless  hand  and  visage  stern, 
Each  tree  and  shrub :  then  Memory  seems  to  mourn, 

Yearning  for  Summer  skies  and  Moons  again. 


GEORGE  SHEPARD  BURLEIGH.        463 


GEORGE  SHEPARD  BURLEIGH. 

[Born  1821.] 

GEORGE  SHEPARD  BURLEIGH,  a  younger  brother  of  WILLIAM  HENRY 
BURLEIGH,  was  born  at  Plainfield,  on  the  25th  of  March,  1821.  He 
very  early  developed  the  poetical  faculty,  being  remarkable  when  a 
mere  child  for  the  facility  with  which  he  composed  verses,  and  for 
the  euphony  that  characterized  these  juvenile  efforts.  He  has  had 
no  education,  except  such  as  he  could  obtain  by  attendance,  during 
the  Winter  months,  at  a  common  District  School,  while  his  Summers 
have  been,  and  still  are,  spent  in  laborious  occupation  upon  a  farm 
in  his  native  town. 

Though  the  time  which  Mr.  BURLEIGH  has  been  enabled  to  give 
to  literary  efforts,  has  been  principally  abstracted  from  those  hours 
usually  allotted  to  rest,  still  his  poetical  writings  have  been  quite 
voluminous.  We  learn,  that  he  has  written  several  long  manu 
script  poems — one  a  metrical  romance,  in  six  cantos,  beside  several 
dramatic  pieces.  He  has  already  published  many  articles  in  the 
periodicals,  which  indicate  fine  poetical  talents,  and  give  the  promise 
of  a  success,  at  a  future  day,  which  shall  be  creditable  alike  to 
himself  and  to  the  literature  of  his  native  state. 


NUNKETUNK.* 
Uplift  thy  grey  and  jutting  brow 

Untrembling  to  the  thunder's  shock  ; 
Revolving  ages  cannot  bow 

The  pride  of  thy  eternal  rock ; 
In  vain  the  howling  storm  shall  beat 
And  swell  the  waters  at  thy  feet ; 
The  crested  floods  may  dash  awhile 
In  fury  on  thy  giant  pile, 
And,  like  a  bannered  army,  come, 
Down-rushing  from  their  northern  home  ; 

*  This  is  the  name  of  a  fine  old  precipice,  about  a  mile  north  of  the  village 
of  Canterbury,  in  Connecticut,  which  extends  like  a  wall  along,  near  the  bank 
of  the  Quinebaug,  ending  in  a  bold,  high  cliff,  at  its  southern  extremity. 

_'^-J 


464  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Roll  round  thy  base  with  foaming  pride, 
And  waste  their  thunders  on  thy  side ; 
But  when  the  kindling  sun  shall  burn, 
And  bid  the  boiling  waves  return, 
Thy  mural  rocks  shall  stand  sublime, 
And  mock  the  wasting  tide  of  Time. 

Before  thee,  in  their  chainless  might, 
The  waters  through  the  verdant  plain, 
Roll  downward  to  the  rolling  main  ; 
Rejoicing  in  the  chastened  light, 
As,  from  its  calm  and  silent  noon, 
Looks  down  the  still  and  midnight  moon, 
O'er  the  soft  drifts  of  curling  fog 
Upon  the  flashing  Quinebaug. 

Oh,  bright  the  sparkling  wavelets  gleam, 

And  tremble  in  the  passing  breeze, 
As  if  the  spirits  of  the  stream 

Had  met  the  fairies  of  the  leas, 
And,  half-suspended  in  the  air, 
They  tripped  their  joyous  measures  there, 
Stirring  the  waters  with  the  beat 
Of  beautiful  and  unseen  feet ; 
While  far  along,  a  wavy  line 
Of  silver-hued  and  pale  moonshine, 
As  if  for  angel  feet  to  pave 
The  softly  undulating  wave, 
Is  stretched  away  from  side  to  side, 
Aslant,  across  the  rolling  tide. 


Here  rang  the  Red  Man's  wild  war-whoop, 
And  Ruin  poured  her  dismal  wail, 

When,  darker  than  the  clouds  which  stoop 
Beneath  their  weight  of  garnered  hail, 
Above  the  over-shadowed  vale, 
And  fleeter  than  the  strong-winged  gale, 
The  forest  kings  came  down  ; 

And  bending  brow,  and  flashing  eye, 

And  red  arms  wildly  tossed  on  high, 


GEORGE  SHEPARD  BURLEIGH.        465 

And  startling  shriek  and  dismal  cry, 
Told  where  the  storm  of  war  swept  by, 
Along  the  shadows  brown. 

Then  shook  the  woods,  which  on  thy  brow 
Lull  the  soft  breeze  to  slumber  now, 
As  through  their  leaves  and  down  the  dell, 
The  shower  of  swift-winged  arrows  fell ; 
And,  hissing  through  the  foliage,  sunk 
In  gnarled  branch  and  guarded  trunk, 
While  fire  leaped  sparkling  from  thy  rock 
Before  the  falling  tomahawk. 

But  haply  thou,  old  cliff,  hast  known 
A  gentler  scene,  a  milder  tone  ; 
When  bent  thy  jutting  front  above 
The  Indian  warrior's  dark-eyed  love ; 
And  scarce  the  echo  in  thy  caves, 

Answered  the  plashing  of  the  oar, 

As,  curving  to  the  bending  shore, 

Round  rock,  and  bank,  and  drifted  log, 
The  light  canoe  flew  o'er  the  waves, 
Along  the  dancing  Quinebaug, 

Gaily  to  bear  the  Eagle  lover 
Unto  his  Fawn,  who  rested  where 
Thy  giant  crag  upheld  in  air 

Its  mighty  shield  above  her. 

Then  the  Great  Spirit's  eye  alone 

Saw  hand  in  hand,  and  side  by  side, 

The  dark-browed  Indian,  and  his  bride, 
With  his  strong  arm  around  her  thrown — 

That  arm  which  oft  bore  back  the  tide 
Of  battle  from  his  well-loved  land, 

When  stern  Invasion  rose  in  pride, 
And  Slaughter  bared  her  red  right  hand ; 

And  the  Great  Spirit  only  heard 
Their  tones,  so  soft  they  started  not 
The  small  wren  in  his  tiny  grot, 

As  willing  vow,  and  whispered  word, 


466  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Were  breathed  from  lips  that  once  had  pealed 
The  war-cry  o'er  the  purple  field, 
When,  wild  as  sudden  thunder,  poured 
The  death  yell  of  the  savage  horde. 

But  they  have  gone,  and  thou  hast  kept 

No  record  of  their  varied  story  ; 
Away  the  traitor  foe  hath  swept 

The  last  faint  vestige  of  their  glory. 
O'er  all  the  woods,  a  bitter  wail 
Comes  floating  on  the  awakening  gale ; 
And,  murmuring  round  thy  rocky  base, 
Seems  mourning  their  departed  race. 

Alas,  old  Nunketunk  !  no  more 

The  Red  Man's  foot  shall  tread  thy  cliff, 
While,  bound  beside  the  river-shore, 

Is  seen  his  rocking  skiff; 
No  more  thy  arch  shall  bend  above 
The  warrior  and  his  dark-eyed  love  ; 
Or  Indian  girls,  with  midnight  locks, 
Bound  careless  o'er  thy  high-hung  rocks  ; 
Or  underneath  the  boughs  of  green 

That  curtain  round  thy  temple  hall, 
Dark  chiefs,  before  the  Great  Unseen, 

In  silent  adoration  fall ; 
For  Christian  hands,  in  robbery  strong, 
By  fraud,  and  violence,  arid  wrong, 
Have  made  their  little  ones  a  prey, 

Their  old  and  grey-haired  warriors  slain ; 
And  swept  their  scattered  tribes  away, 

Like  dust  before  the  hurricane  ; 
Burying  with  them,  evermore, 
Their  priceless  wealth  of  legend  lore. 

Farewell,  old  crag !  there  comes  an  hour, 
When  thou  shalt  crumble,  even  as  they ; 

Nor  scorn  again  the  storm-god's  power, 
Whose  lightnings  round  thy  forehead  play ; 

That  hour  when  flames  the  rocks  devour, 
And  heaven  and  earth  are  rolled  away. 


GEORGE  SHEPARD  BURLEIGH.         467 

GRIEF'S    BLESSINGS. 
Oh,  tell  us  not  we  may  not  mourn, 

Whose  hearts  with  bitter  grief  are  wrung, 
When  sudden  from  our  arms  are  torn 

The  loved,  the  beautiful,  the  young ; 
Grief's  lessons  are  so  calm  and  deep, 
'T  were  sad  indeed  we  could  not  weep. 

'T  is  not  in  vain  the  heart  is  made 

To  melt  with  sorrow,  nor  in  vain 
Affliction's  hand  is  on  us  laid, 

For  holiest  joy  is  born  of  pain  ; 
The  joy  serene  which  lifts  the  soul 
Above  the  earth  and  its  control. 

The  glorious  bow,  which  never  bowed 

In  promise  o'er  a  clear  blue  sky, 
Gleams  brightly,  when  the  sunlit  cloud, 

Storm-freighted,  reels  in  terrors  by  ; 
So  on  the  very  clouds  of  Death 
Heaven  kindles  in  the  light  of  Faith. 

Brighter  and  brighter,  day  by  day, 

Is  poured  that  holy  light  within, 
Whose  chastened  and  undazzlirig  ray 

Leads  upward  from  the  shades  of  sin  ; 
While  earthly  pleasure's  blinding  glare 
Grows  fainter  on  the  misty  air. 

Above  the  gathering  clouds  of  woe, 

The  eye  of  Faith,  in  calm  delight, 
Rests  on  the  enchanting  fields  which  glow 

In  radiance  divinely  bright, 
Where  saints  redeemed,  and  seraph  choir, 
Hosannas  wake  with  tongue  and  lyre. 

And  stronger,  in  that  strength  divine 

Which  comes  from  GOD,  his  soul  shall  rise, 

Who  kneels  before  Affliction's  shrine, 
To  yield  his  willing  sacrifice  ; 

And  they  shall  reap,  who  sow  in  tears, 

Rich  gladness  through  the  eternal  years. 


468  POETS     OF     CONNECTICUT. 

Then  let  us  weep,  but  not  despair ; 

For,  when  the  clouds  of  Sorrow  come, 
HEAVEN  writes  in  rainbow  colors  there 

The  promise  of  our  better  home  ; 
Our  tears  of  earnest  grief  may  heal 
The  wounds  our  broken  spirits  feel. 


HOSPITALITY. 
HEAVEN  from  above  looks  down  with  kindly  eye, 

On  him  who  takes  the  weary  wanderer  in, 

When  the  night  deepens,  and  the  storms  begin 
To  pour  their  terrors  from  the  darkened  sky ; 
Poor  pining  prey  of  pitiless  poverty, 

Outcast  perchance  for  deeds  of  cherished  sin, 

Let  not  his  prayer  from  thee  no  kindness  win, 
Nor  to  his  need  what  thou  canst  give  deny : 

GOD  gave  thee  bread  to  feed  thy  starving  brother ; 
He  gave  thy  roof  to  shelter  the  distressed  ; 

What  thou  wouldst  ask  deny  not  to  another ; 
So  shall  thy  fields  and  thou  thyself  be  blessed ; 

For  as  thou  sowest  shall  thy  harvest  be  ; 
And  with  what  hand  thou  giv'st,  it  shall  be  given  to  thee. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


19Mar5 


1 3  1966  8  ! 


LD  21-95m-ll, '50  (2877616)476 


• 


YC 1048 1 9 


